Chapter Four
Time was flying, and Sam was no closer to finding Frank Culhane’s killer than he’d been when he left Texas. He had the rest of the week to either solve the case, write it off as unsolved, or arrest Roper, based on unproven evidence, and take a chance on a trial.
For Sam, the acquittal of a man he respected would come as a relief. But it would leave Frank’s murder unsolved, justice unserved, and a permanent blot on his own record. He had days to find solid answers.
The Shootout, a free-for-all match to fill eleven of sixteen reining slots for next year’s Run for a Million, would be held on Friday.
Contestants could make up to three runs on three different horses.
That was what Roper had registered to do.
But one horse was gone. If the others were too traumatized to show, he would be out of the competition.
Maybe that was just as well. If Roper was found guilty of murder, by this time next year he’d be behind bars.
But what if Roper was innocent? Sam asked himself. What if, while he waited for Roper to slip up and show his hand, the real killer was still out there, hiding in plain sight?
Thoughts churning, Sam walked around the hotel and entered the arena complex, where the Shootout was scheduled to take place.
What if he’d taken the wrong approach—letting the evidence overrule his own intuition? Maybe it was time to back off and look at the larger picture—the suspects on his list and any others he might have overlooked.
Whether he liked it or not, that included Jasmine and her mother.
Lost in thought, he found himself wandering on a random path through the vast building. Now he was walking down a corridor that led past offices, dressing and workout rooms, and an emergency medical clinic. At this early hour, most of the doors were closed.
Arranged along the wall, in the spaces between the doors, were framed photos of men and women who had made contributions to equine sports—champions, horse breeders and trainers, business investors, and others.
Sam stopped short at the sight of a familiar face. There on the wall was a framed photo of a smiling Frank Culhane.
Sam had viewed Frank’s remains. He’d also seen stock photos in the tabloids and the murky private-eye shots of Frank in a motel doorway with his young mistress.
But only now, looking at the portrait of a man in his prime, dressed in a blue western shirt with a Native American bolo tie, his tanned, rugged features framed by a mane of silver hair, did Sam get a sense of the person Frank had been in life.
The face in the picture exuded power, confidence, and magnetism.
What would motivate someone to kill such a man? Envy? Revenge? Ambition? Greed? Fear? Even love?
This week Sam would make it his mission to find out. He would track down and interview anyone who had known Frank Culhane, including the family. If he could find the truth about why Frank had been murdered, he would have a new lead to his killer.
From his place in the barn, Roper could hear the sounds of the rookie and non-pro events starting up. Fans were pouring into the nearest of two arenas. Horses were being saddled and warmed up. Soon the judges would take their places, and the first event would begin.
Today was Wednesday. The Shootout would take place on Friday.
Riders who’d competed in past Shootouts claimed that it was even more stressful than the final Run for a Million.
Any qualified rider—man or woman, pro, non-pro, or rookie—could enter, so the field was large.
At the end of the long day, eleven spots in next year’s Run for a Million would be awarded, as well as a handsome cash prize.
For the winners, the uncertainty would be gone.
They would have prize money and a full year to train.
Roper had hoped to be among them. But if neither of his horses was fit to enter, he could already be out of the running.
The remaining five places would be awarded at the Cactus Classic in March. That was where Frank had won his spot. Roper could only hope to do the same. Right now, all he could do was work with the two stallions, in the hope that at least one of them would be ready for Saturday’s million-dollar run.
For now, he’d resolved to plan his days.
He would go ahead with his life as if there were no clouds on the horizon.
But the specter of a wrongful conviction and a lifetime behind bars haunted him day and night.
No more freedom. No more horses. And no more Lila, his beautiful boss, whose warm passion had awakened him to a new life.
He knew that Sam Rafferty was watching his every move, waiting for a slipup that would justify an arrest. Sam was the kind of man Roper would value as a friend. But Sam had sworn an oath to uphold the law. There was no question that, when the time came, he would put duty before friendship.
He glanced at the time on his phone, resisting the urge to call Lila.
This wouldn’t be a good time for her. The van with Millie’s remains would be arriving sometime this morning.
The cowboy who ran the ranch’s miniature backhoe would have the grave dug.
He’d be waiting to help move the body to its resting place and blanket it under Texas earth.
Lila showed a tough face to the world, but Roper knew that her heart was as tender as a child’s.
Today that heart would be breaking. After the cowboy left, she would lay flowers on the fresh grave and cry her eyes out.
He only wished he could be there to hold her.
He would give her some time. Then he would call and tell her not to come to Las Vegas. The trip would tax her strength. Worse, it could be dangerous. If the hit on the freeway had been meant to take her out, another attempt on Lila’s life could be made at any time. She would be far safer at home.
Even if she were to come, she could be making the trip for nothing. There was a chance that neither of the stallions would be fit to perform on Saturday.
But that couldn’t be allowed to happen. He owed it—to Lila, to Chet Barr, and to himself—to see that Fire Dance was ready to compete, and that One in a Million would be there for backup.
Starting now, he had the rest of the week to work with them and get them ready. If he failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
After silencing his phone, to avoid any startling sounds, he focused his full attention on the horses.
Both stallions had nibbled at their oats.
But they were chuffing, snorting, and stamping their hooves.
When Roper reached out to Fire Dance over the gate, the wild-eyed sorrel laid back his ears and thrust his head forward, baring his teeth in a clear threat to bite.
One in a Million was more approachable, still rolling his eyes, snorting, and tossing his head, but no longer trying to kick.
Roper took a calming breath. Then, whistling a familiar tune, he took a brush and a clean towel, stepped into the stall, and closed the gate behind him.
It was a risky move. The powerful stallion could easily kill him.
But One in a Million had never known anything from his trainers but trust and gentleness.
He snorted and quivered but didn’t strike out.
Roper extended the brush and towel, letting the horse sniff them. The big roan usually enjoyed being groomed. But this time his head jerked upward. He backed away, his rump crashing into the back of the stall.
Roper stood his ground, speaking softly. “It’s all right, big boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I know you had a big scare, but you’ll be fine now.”
As he eased closer, Roper began to sing, his voice low and calming. The song was one that Frank used to sing as he brushed the stallion’s glossy roan coat.
“As I walked out in the streets of Laredo … As I walked out in Laredo one day …”
One in a Million’s ears pricked forward with sudden interest. Continuing to sing, Roper moved the brush lightly over the stallion’s withers and down his shoulder. He heard the release of breath as the powerful body began to relax.
Roper kept the brush moving. It was a start. But with Fire Dance still wild with terror in the next stall, he had a long way to go. With luck, One in a Million might be ready to show. But unless he could ride Fire Dance into the arena, Chet Barr would be one angry owner.
Sam was crossing the hotel lobby, headed for the barn to speak with Roper, when he recognized the young woman coming out of the elevator. Petite, with stunning eyes and a cloud of dark hair, it could only be Cheyenne McKenna.
This morning she looked shower fresh, her hair flowing in damp waves.
She was dressed in a blue denim shirt and fresh jeans.
Back in Texas, he’d interviewed her just once.
Mostly, he’d asked about Roper’s relationship with his former boss.
She’d had little to say, as she was spending most of her time on the rodeo circuit.
But someone in her family—maybe it was one of her brothers—had mentioned that Frank had offered to train her in reining, and she’d turned him down.
Maybe there was more to the story than what he’d heard.
“Excuse me, Miss McKenna.” Sam was close enough to be heard. “Do you have a few minutes? I have some questions for you.”
She turned, the half smile on her face vanishing. “I’ve already told you what I know, Agent,” she said. “Besides, I’m on my way to meet someone.”
“This won’t take long,” Sam said. “Come on, I’ll buy you some coffee. By the time you drink it, we’ll be finished.”
She shrugged. “I really can’t refuse the FBI, can I? Fine, don’t bother with the coffee. Just get it over with.”
He led her to a nearby waiting area furnished with several upholstered settees. Sitting, she faced him, a guarded expression on her stunning face. According to the tabloids, she’d turned down modeling and movie offers. Sam could believe it.