Texas Gun Smoke. Joanna Wayne
She didn’t just move out. She’s either on the run because she’s afraid or she’s been abducted or…” Or worse, but Jaclyn wasn’t ready to deal with that possibility yet.
“That’s a pretty extreme assumption.”
“You wouldn’t think that if you’d seen her apartment. It looked as if she’d stepped outside and never come back in. There was a full pot of coffee, and her computer was still on. So was the ceiling fan in her bedroom and there was a load of wet towels in the washing machine. Even her car was still there and parked in her regular parking spot.”
“But no Margo?”
“Right.” The fear multiplied with every word of explanation. It was just so clear that Margo had not left of her own free will.
“Did you check with the landlady or the neighbors?”
“That was the first thing I did. The landlady hadn’t seen her since she gave notice on September thirtieth that she would be moving out on October fifteenth.”
“You didn’t mention she was moving.”
“I didn’t know it. I was guessing it was due to her getting the job and part of the surprise.”
“What did the neighbors say?”
“There was only one. Margo lives in one of those narrow three-story buildings with apartments over a ground-level shop, so there aren’t many tenants. The man who shares the third level with her told me he hadn’t seen or heard her in at least two weeks. The elderly woman who has an apartment next to the landlady’s on the second floor is visiting her son in San Diego and has been away since the middle of September.”
“I’d have to agree with you that this doesn’t quite add up. Did you explain everything to the police?”
“I tried. They took the information down, but all they would focus on was that she was a legal adult who’d given notice to the manager of the apartment complex that she was moving out. They asked if there was blood in the apartment. When I said no, it seemed they lost interest.”
“What about friends? A boyfriend?”
“She didn’t have close girlfriends, but there is most definitely a man—a married state senator. She was convinced he was going to leave his wife and marry her.”
“I take it you don’t think he was.”
“Do they ever?”
“I guess some must, considering the divorce rate in this country. Have you talked to the senator?”
“Of course. I got nowhere. He denied even knowing Margo. He’s behind her disappearance—I know it. Now I just have to prove it.” The fury was so strong that talking about him burned her throat.
“What’s his name?” Bart asked.
“Pat Hebert.”
“Patrick Lewis Hebert?”
Her nerves knotted like twisted twine at the recognition in Bart’s tone. “Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours.”
“No, but I’ve met him. He and some other guys from Louisiana co-own Paradise Pastures—a small ranch about a half hour west of here—and they frequent the local bars and cafés when they’re around. He seems friendly enough, especially with the women. I never got the idea that he was married.”
“Not surprising since he seemed to forget that fact himself,” Jaclyn said. “But if he’s familiar with this area, then that proves he’s the one who lured me to Colts Run Cross in the first place. He’d planned to ambush me all along.”
Bart planted his feet and stopped the gentle sway of the swing. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Exactly how were you lured to this area?”
“I received a phone call two days ago from someone speaking in an obviously disguised voice telling me to meet him in Cutter’s Bar in Colts Run Cross last night if I wanted to find out what had happened to Margo. I showed up at the appointed time, but no one else did. I waited for two hours before I left. Apparently I was set up. He called back when I was sitting in your truck and said that if I didn’t stop looking for Margo, I’d end up dead.”
“You really are convinced that Hebert is behind all of this?”
“Wouldn’t you be under the circumstances?”
“I’d be suspicious, but it’s a big jump from suspicious to accusing a state senator of abducting a lover—or worse.”
And there was no reason for him to stick his neck into that kind of noose.
“If you want out, just say so,” she said, trying for flippant to cover her desperation.
“I didn’t say I wanted out. I just like to have all the facts before I go accusing a politician of wrongdoing, especially of something as serious as foul play involving a mistress. Isn’t it possible that they had an argument or that he broke up with her and she just took off?”
“If he had nothing to do with her disappearance, why deny they were having an affair?”
“Maybe to keep his wife from divorcing him—or to avoid a career-ending scandal.” He fingered his Stetson and tugged it a little lower on his forehead. “I’m still willing to help, but I have one condition.”
She squared her shoulders. “Surprise, surprise.”
“Make that two conditions. Quell the sarcasm and we do this my way, which means I call the shots.”
“Why should I agree to anything?”
“Because you need my help. You were almost killed last night, and from what you’ve said, you haven’t made much headway in finding out what’s happened to your friend on your own.”
“What’s in this for you?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be doing this because it’s the right thing to do?”
It had occurred to her, but she still had difficulty buying it. “So does this mean you’re going to drive me back to New Orleans?” she asked.
“Are you staying in New Orleans now?”
“Yes. I talked Margo’s landlady into letting me keep her apartment until the end of the month. She agreed—for a price.”
Bart frowned. “And your husband went along with that?”
“He doesn’t know,” she said, the familiar lie surprisingly sticking in her throat. “His National Guard unit was called into action in the Middle East. He has enough to worry about without laying this on him.”
“I have to take care of some things here at the ranch before I take off. The earliest I can leave is tomorrow morning. I only have one bed here at my place, but you can stay at the big house.”
“With your mom?”
“And the rest of the family. There’s plenty of room. And if you think you have questions about why I’m jumping into the missing-person’s game, you can bet my family will have a hundred more. But don’t worry—I’ll give them some kind of explanation and insist they not give you the third degree.”
The thought of facing the rest of the Collingsworths unsettled her to the point of nausea. She was never comfortable in family situations. They elicited too many memories, all of them bad.
“Don’t worry,” Bart said, no doubt reading her mind from her furrowed brow. “They’ll love you.”
“Sure, cowboy. About the way they’d love a copperhead curled up in the middle of their bed.”
“Just don’t make rattling noises,” he quipped, “and they’ll never know you’re venomous.”
BART’S PICKUP TRUCK rattled and bounced along what loosely passed for a road. Jaclyn’s nerves