Page 9 of One in a Million

By the time he got the gate properly hung and balanced, the sun was riding the peak of the sky. Rachel had driven into Willow Bend for groceries, taking her husband along in his wheelchair. Roper was relieved to have them gone. He wasn’t in the mood to have Kirby asking him how Frank died or dropping hints about a scandal with Cheyenne.

For lunch, he made do with the sandwiches he’d planned to eat at work that day. Strange how everything could change in the blink of an eye. He’d left for the Culhane Ranch at dawn, expecting an ordinary day. But he could never have imagined the turns the morning would take.

After the round pen was completed, he spent the afternoon in the unfinished stable, mounting the sliding gate kits and adding vital parts to each stall—the handles, the latches, the anchoring bolts, the hitch rings, and the floor mats. Every finished stall meant another horse that could be raised, trained, and shown in the coming years—more horses and better horses—maybe even champion studs like One in a Million.

Losing himself in his work, he barely raised his head until it was too dark to see outside. Rachel and Kirby had returned home earlier, loaded with groceries. The aroma of sloppy joes with homemade barbecue sauce simmered on the twilight breeze.

Sore from the long day, he gathered up the tools and the extra parts and packed them away in the shed. His hip twinged from the day of lifting and bending as he walked toward the house. On the porch, the aging cattle dog pricked his ears, wagged his tail, and trotted off to investigate a sound in the brush.

Rachel was setting a basket of warmed buns on the table along with the sauce and a bowl of potato salad. Roper washed his hands and sat down at the table. His mother’s cooking was frugal, but it was always good. A warning glance passed from her eyes to his. He understood. The issue of Cheyenne was not to be discussed. For now, small talk would be limited to the ranch and the weather.

They were finishing the meal with butterscotch ice cream when the phone rang. Rachel jumped up to answer it. She spoke a few words, then paused, frowned, and nodded before passing the receiver to Roper. “You might want to take this in the other room,” she said.

His raised eyebrow asked a silent question, but she didn’t answer. Maybe it was the police. They’d be wanting more answers about Frank’s death. It would only be a matter of time before they found his name on their list.

Roper’s parents were watching him. He carried the phone into the living room before he answered.

“This is Roper McKenna.”

“Mr. McKenna . . .” The female voice was as seductive as a blues song in a smoky bar. “This is Lila Culhane.”

Startled, Roper swallowed the tightness in his throat. “Can I do something for you, Mrs. Culhane?”

“It’s Lila. You and I need to talk. Tonight.” Her voice had taken on a businesslike tone. “How soon can you meet me?”

He was intrigued—who wouldn’t be? But he was also suspicious. Why would Frank’s widow be calling him—a man she scarcely knew—mere hours after her husband’s death? Was he being set up?

“Are you aware that I no longer work for the Culhane Ranch, Lila? I quit this morning. That means I no longer take orders from your family or from you.”

“I know. But you’ve nothing to lose by hearing what I have to say. I’ll pick you up in my car. Tell me when and where.”

Roper still sensed trouble, but curiosity already had him hooked. “Main gate, this ranch. Twenty minutes?”

“I can be there in ten.” She ended the call.

The main gate was a half mile from the house. Roper had long since outgrown the practice of checking in with his parents, but as he crossed the living room to the front door, he called over his shoulder, “Going out,” and heard a muttered acknowledgment from the kitchen.

As he strode down the driveway, his boots stirring whorls of dust, Roper remembered the loaded pistol he kept under the driver’s seat of his truck. It might be smart to go back and get it. But it was too late for caution. Looking down the road he could see low-slung headlights, distant, but approaching fast.

By the time he stepped through the gate, the white Porsche was waiting a few yards down the road, its headlights reflecting off clouds of night-flying moths.

Lila sat in the driver’s seat with the top down. A click from inside the car opened the passenger door. “Get in,” she said.

Roper climbed into the kind of car he would never be rich enough to own. The buttery leather seemed to flow around his hips. “Where are we going?” he asked. “You’re driving—unless, of course, you’d rather give me a turn at the wheel.”

“Dream on.” She eased the car back onto the road. She was dressed in the same silk blouse he’d noticed that morning, with a scarf knotted at her throat. “Don’t worry, we’re not going far,” she said. “I’m just taking you to a quiet place where we can talk.”

A tap on the gas pedal sent the sleek white roadster roaring into the night. Roper leaned back, savoring the feel of the luxury car gliding beneath him. A side-glance at Lila showed her looking serene and confident—not at all like a woman who’d just been widowed. He’d give a lot to know what was going on inside that elegant head.

A few miles past the ranch, she swung the car onto a side lane and pulled onto a stream bank overhung with willows. The water in the hollow below was down to a trickle, but it made a relaxing sound. If she’d been his date instead of his ex-boss’s widow, he might have taken her in his arms and put business on hold in favor of pleasure. But Lila Culhane clearly had something else in mind.

He angled his body to face her. “All right, Lila,” he said. “You didn’t bring me out here to share the moonlight. Let’s talk.”

She gave him a knowing smile, as if to tell him he could trust her to keep his secrets. He remembered how Jasmine had described the woman as a floozy who’d charmed Frank away from his first wife. Was she trying to seduce him, too?

But that didn’t make sense. Roper wasn’t wealthy enough to stir her ambition. The best he could offer her was an unprofitable roll in the hay. Whatever she was after, it didn’t appear to be sex. Did she need a spy? Or maybe someone to blame for Frank’s death?

After a tense moment, she locked her gaze with his and spoke.

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