Chapter Ten
Cheyenne had awakened before dawn. Too restless to go back to sleep, she had showered and shampooed her hair, dressed, and tidied the room for her mother’s impending arrival. Now she stood at the window, watching the sky fade above the glittering streets below.
Stetson, her older brother, had texted her last night from somewhere in New Mexico.
He and their mother would be getting into Las Vegas by midmorning.
Stetson would be dropping Rachel off with Cheyenne, after which he’d be free to make his own plans.
Cheyenne suspected he’d be spending time with a girl he’d met at a rodeo here.
But she wouldn’t ask. She respected her brother’s right to privacy—especially since she had so little of her own.
In this capital of sin, surrounded by lustful cowboys, Rachel McKenna would be watching her daughter’s every move.
Cheyenne would need to make the most of the few hours that remained.
Checking on Fire Dance would be at the top of her list. She would find Roper and get his suggestions on how to move the stallion out of South Point and into an open place like a paddock, where he could have room to run off his fear—a place where he might begin to heal.
Buck’s advice would be useful, too. Even though he’d suggested putting Fire Dance down, she respected his judgment.
But Buck would likely be leaving today. Earlier, she’d heard water running and the sound of movement in his room.
Afraid of making a fool of herself, she’d resisted the urge to knock on his door.
Now the room was quiet. He could already be down at the trailer dock loading Chief for the long drive back to Ten Sleep, Wyoming, wherever that was.
Maybe she could catch up with him before he left.
Torn, she picked up her purse and swung toward the door, then hesitated as she heard a knock. That it might be Buck was too much to hope. But maybe it was Roper. She flew to open the door.
Hayden stood in the doorway, a manila envelope in his hand and a sheepish expression on his face. “You don’t look happy to see me,” he said. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Cheyenne stepped back. “At this hour, I take it this isn’t a social visit. What’s on your mind?”
Hayden closed the door behind him as he came inside. “First of all, I want to apologize,” he said. “I was a jerk last night. Blame it on a few too many beers. I’m sorry.”
“It’s forgotten,” Cheyenne said.
“Then how about a hug—between friends?” He opened his arms. Cheyenne allowed herself to be drawn close for a moment, but she could feel her nerves tingling. Something about him—perhaps the sound of his breathing or the scent of his body—triggered an unexplained chill.
She eased away from him. “Is there something else? Have you changed your mind about giving me Fire Dance?”
“No, the horse is yours. I’ve got the transfer papers right here.
I called my lawyer in the night to get them drawn up and faxed.
” He thrust the manila envelope toward her.
Cheyenne’s hands shook as she accepted it.
She’d owned other horses, but none that came with Fire Dance’s challenges.
She would do her best to save him. That was all she could promise.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “Or maybe you should thank me for taking him off your hands.”
“No thanks necessary,” Hayden said. “But now that he’s yours, there’s something you need to hear. If I’d known about it, I would never have offered you the horse.”
His tone startled her. She glanced up at him, her instincts braced. “Tell me,” she said.
He swallowed. “A man was found dead this morning—in Fire Dance’s stall. The Clark County sheriff has taken charge. He’ll probably order your horse put down.”
“A man? Who was he?” The floor seemed to be buckling under her feet.
“His name was Darrin Culhane—a neighbor of yours, I take it.”
“Frank Culhane’s son?” The news—and the name—hit her like a shotgun blast. “What was he doing in the stall?”
“Evidently, he was looking for a phone his wife had thrown over the gate. Neither of them knew the horse was dangerous.”
“Then it wasn’t Fire Dance’s fault! He was scared. He was just protecting himself.”
“We don’t know that, Cheyenne. All we know for sure is that the horse is a killer.”
“I’ve got to get down there!” Still clutching the envelope with the ownership papers, she flung open the door, grabbed Hayden’s arm, and pulled him out into the hall—where Buck, carrying a canvas duffel, was just coming out of his room.
Buck tried not to look dismayed when he saw Cheyenne come out of her room with Hayden. He’d hoped she might have better judgment, but there was no accounting for a woman’s taste.
He knew better than to hope she might have chosen him.
But the thought of her with Hayden, responding despite the secret she’d shared, sharpened the ache in his throat.
Maybe she reminded him of the innocent sister he’d failed to guard.
But no, Buck knew better. His feelings for Cheyenne were anything but brotherly.
He was about to give the pair a polite nod and head for the elevator when he noticed her desperate look and the glint of tears in her eyes. His protective instincts surged. If the bastard had hurt her, so help him …
“Are you all right, Cheyenne?” he asked.
“Not really. I could use your advice if you’ve got a minute to listen.”
Buck lowered his duffel to the floor. As Cheyenne poured out her story, his anger seethed. Hayden had used her compassion to rid himself of any liability for damages and expense caused by the stallion.
Hayden Barr was everything Buck had judged him to be, maybe worse.
“Of all the dirty, underhanded—” He’d meant the words for Hayden, but he spoke them to thin air. Hayden was gone.
“Does your brother know about this?” he asked her.
“Probably. But he’s getting ready for the Run for a Million tomorrow night. I don’t want to distract him.” Her sigh was almost a sob. “Buck, I don’t want to kill that beautiful horse. Can you take a look at him and help me decide what to do?”
“You already know what I’d recommend,” Buck said. “The horse is miserable—and he’s dangerous.”
“Please. We may already be too late.” The heartbreak in her velvety eyes would have broken the will of any man.
Buck opened the door of his room, tossed the duffel inside, and closed the door again. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll look at him, but he’s your horse. The final decision will have to be yours.”
Dressed in a faded hospital gown, Simone huddled in the bed like a child awakened from a nightmare.
Her blond curls clung to her tear-blotched face.
A fist-sized bruise purpled the left side of her jaw.
She was able to talk, but the story she’d told Sam was so strange that he was tempted to dismiss it.
“You say you killed your husband, Simone. Why do you say that?”
“Don’t you understand? I threw his phone into the horse stall.
I thought I was saving him from a foolish mistake—Darrin wasn’t really smart, you know, even if he was a lawyer.
He was going to call this man who claimed to be his brother.
I could tell it was a scam—or worse. If Darrin had met with the man, he could’ve been blackmailed or even robbed and killed. ”
“And you heard their conversation in your hotel room?”
“Through the bathroom door—and only Darrin’s side of the call. But that was enough.” She choked back a sob. “If only I’d stopped him then, he’d still be alive. But no, I was curious. I had to follow him.”
“And when did he tell you the man was claiming to be his brother? Did you hear that on the phone?”
“Yes, and I heard it again from Darrin in the barn. He mentioned wanting to see a DNA test.”
“And did Darrin mention a name, an age, anything that might tell us more?”
Simone shook her head. “I’ve told you—and the police—everything I know. Now, please leave me alone. I’ve just become a widow, with a baby that will never know his father. I need a chance to grieve.”
Sam might have asked her about the bruise on her face. But he’d seen other such bruises, and he knew where they came from. For now, he would spare her the humiliation.
His thoughts churned as he left the hospital and drove back to the hotel.
If Simone’s story could be believed, the FBI murder case had a new suspect—Frank Culhane’s illegitimate son.
But what were the odds that such a person even existed?
The story could be a dead end—a staged prank or a scheme to extort something from Darrin.
Or the phone call to Darrin could have been the real thing, in which case, the caller had to be found.
Since he’d requested a meeting, he was likely close by.
With so many people here for the big event, searching the crowds would be a waste of time—and time was running out.
If Frank’s son existed, there had to be a way to lure him into the open.
Sam took the elevator back to his room and prepared to call Jasmine. She’d been hurt and angry when they’d last parted. He wanted to set things right. But that might have to happen later.
He placed the call. The phone rang once, twice, then a third time. She probably didn’t want to talk to him. But if she didn’t pick up, the next call would be from the sheriff.
He was composing a voicemail in his head when she answered. “If you’re calling to apologize, Sam, you can save your breath. I’m not ready to listen to your excuses.”
“This is something else, Jasmine. Something hard, but I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“This had better be good.”
“I’m sorry, Jasmine. Darrin’s dead. He was killed in the night—killed by a horse.”
“Darrin always hated horses.” She spoke in a flat voice, as if reading a line from a book.
He gave her the facts in a few short sentences. She listened without a word, but he could hear her breathing. “Are you all right?” he asked her.