“That’s right. He doesn’t.”

  “M-Miss Miranda,” Marcus stuttered in surprise. “I was just . . . just checkin’ up before turning in.”

  “Well, now you’ve checked, so turn in.”

  Slocum flicked the butt into the yard as Marcus made his way in the direction of the bunkhouse. Slocum turned toward her voice.

  Miranda stood before him, both hands barely holding up the barrel of one of his Colts. The ripe, full curves of her body showed through her wrapper. He wondered what she had on underneath.

  Slocum sighed.

  This was no time to go investigating. He said, “Better let me take that before you shoot somebody’s foot off, darlin’.”

  “I was having trouble sleeping,” she explained. “I heard noises—besides Uncle Abel’s snoring, that is. From the front room. I went to wake you and saw you were gone, but the bed was still warm, so I figured it was you out there.”

  Miranda’s words tripped over one another as she spoke.

  “Then I saw both your guns still in their holsters, and I didn’t know what to think, so here I am.” Her small, slender hands offered the gun, which he took.

  “No more tomfoolery tonight, young lady. Back in the house with you, before you catch your death. Don’t suppose Carmelita left any coffee, do you?”

  He took the gun from her, slipped his free arm around her, and escorted her into the house. Slocum liked how her curves fit his body.

  While Miranda rustled up a cup of coffee, Slocum stalked to his room and holstered the gun. He would not always be around to protect her.

  He laughed. Just who had needed protection that time?

  Remembering his saddlebags, he dug deep into them. Having pulled something from the bottom of one, he returned to the front parlor.

  Miranda was just returning from the kitchen. “What are you hiding in that big paw of yours?” She set the mug next to the lamp on the fireplace mantel and turned up the wick.

  “More importantly,” she purred, “what would you like to be holding?”

  Slocum graced her with an easy smile and held out a single-shot derringer. “Figured if you’re going to be a gunslinger, you better have a gun you can tote a mite better than my Colt.”

  “Oh,” she cooed, taking the walnut-handled piece in her hand and aiming it at the door. “Where’d you come by something like this?” She examined the silver inlay and cross-hatched carvings.

  “Took it off a saloon girl when I was kind of the temporary sheriff, right after she gut-shot some fool. The idiot didn’t know enough to keep his mouth locked tight, or his pants buttoned up.”

  Miranda dropped the gun into her pocket and picked up the mug.

  Something caught Slocum’s eye. At the corner of the mantel was a collection of pipestone carvings, the red stone marbled with streaks and flecks of white. Pipes in various stages of finish and several figures of desert animals were arranged in a grouping. “Where’d these come from?”

  “Been there as long as I can remember,” Miranda said. “I used to play with them when I was little. Nowadays, Carmelita complains about ’em every time she has to dust.” She picked up the carving of a coyote and ran her fingers over the polished stone.

  “Right before he died, Papa told me he found them near the mouth of an old pipestone quarry.” Miranda’s voice caught.

  “Pipestone quarry?” Slocum asked with arched brows.

  “Around here? I thought the Indians traded with the northern tribes for all their sacred stone. You’re sure he said it was on this land?”

  “Positive. He told me it was near the ruins, up by the waterfall. And that sometimes water covered it when the arroyos were full after a storm.”

  Sinuously, she draped herself on the divan. “I used to hunt for it when I’d go up there for a swim. Never found it, though. But, yes, I’m sure that’s where he said it was. I wish I’d had the chance to ask—”

  “What’s going on out here?” Abel Cassidy shuffled into the room from the hallway.

  “You’re awake, Uncle Abel.”

  “Course I’m awake,” he said accusingly. “Who can sleep? Goll-danged yelling, doors banging, and furniture bein’ tossed all over the place. And what are you doin’ out here half-nekkid?”

  Slocum didn’t like the way Abel leered at Miranda’s figure. It was the most un-uncle-ish look he’d ever seen on a man.

  Miranda appeared not to notice. “I was just showing Slocum the carvings Papa found. You know anything about ’em?”

  “Nah,” Abel said. Then to Slocum, he said, “My brother was a tight-lipped son of a gun. Hell, he never told me he had a safe, till right before he died. Course when I opened it, there was nothing except a stack of bills. He never was too business minded.”

  “And you are?” Miranda shot back. “At least my father knew enough not to bring men like Marcus and Foley around.”

  “What’s got into you lately?” Abel bellowed. “Told you I had to hire them—to find out who’s been feedin’ my good horses to the buzzards.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little more than strange,” Miranda said with cold calm, “that nothing like that ever happened before? Not until after your pal Vance Jefferson left. Not until just before Marcus and Foley wandered in, asking for work.”

  “Now, don’t go accusin’ someone who ain’t around to defend himself,” Abel fairly shouted. “It was just a coincidence, an ugly coincidence.”

  “Seems like there’ve been far too many coincidences, Uncle Abel. And that’s why I brought Slocum here. To make sense of those coincidences before we don’t have a decent horse left on the Bar C to worry about. If I didn’t know better, I’d think . . .” Miranda’s voice trailed off.

  Abel’s voice took on a calmer but far more menacing edge. “Think what?”

  Miranda grew sullen. “Nothing, Uncle Abel.”

  “Then go on back to bed,” he snapped. “Mornin’s’ going to be here before we know it.”

  Now that was a sage bit of nothing, Slocum thought, as he headed back to his room. He punched his pillow into shape and stretched out on his back, sure he wouldn’t catch another wink.

  Morning came before he knew it.

  It was a long night for Miranda Cassidy.

  As soon as first light snaked in through her bedroom window, she was up, dressed in her pale green riding habit, and headed for the dining room. Of all the things that had happened in the past few months, mention of her father having a safe bothered her more than any of them.

  She kept hearing her uncle’s voice: “Hell, he never told me he had a safe, till right before he died. Course when I opened it, there was nothing except a stack of bills. He never was too business minded.”

  She’d never heard of any safe.

  Stack of bills? Never too business minded? That was a complete pile of road apples!

  Miranda plopped into a dining room chair. As if by magic, a steaming cup of coffee and a pitcher of cream appeared in front of her. “Thank you, Carmelita,” she said, spooning two heaping teaspoons of sugar into the cup and adding a big dollop of cream. “Carmelita? How long have you worked on the Bar C?”

  “Ever since you were a tiny thing.”

  “And how well did you know my father?”

  Carmelita blushed, but Miranda’s gaze held her fast. “Very well, señorita. After your madre die, very well.”

  Miranda took a sip of the steaming brew. “Did you know if my father had a safe?”

  “Sí, pequeña.” Carmelita wiped her hands on her apron. “Your poppy say everything you need is in that safe. You didn’t know?”

  “I never heard a word about it until last night. Do you know where it is?”

  “Sí, he show it to me. It is in the wall of his room, behind the painting of your mother.”

  “Don’t mention you told me to Uncle Abel, please.”

  “I don’t tell that malo bastardo cabrón nothing!” she spit out and made the sign to ward off the evil eye. Then she put an index finger to her lips and glanced toward the hallway.

  Slocum strode into the dining room just in time to hear Carmelita’s oath. “Mornin’ ladies,” he said.

  “Coffee, Señor Slocum?” Carmelita greeted him with a warm smile and a twitch of her hip.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Slocum said, swinging his leg over a chair and hopping the chair legs up to the table. He was certain then that her words had not been for him.

  “Evil bastard.” That left Abel Cassidy. Well, if the shoe fit . . .

  The climate sure had changed drastically since the last time he visited the Bar C.

  “You drink. I bring you big breakfast,” Carmelita said, and hurried off to the kitchen. Before she reached the door, she peeked over her shoulder. “How you like your eggs this morning, señor?”

  “Any way you want to cook ’em. Just no salsa.”

  Carmelita cackled and disappeared through the door.

  Slocum took in Miranda—a glorious sight, indeed. She looked awfully fine this morning. Green suited her well and the ruffles at her wrists and throat were a nice touch, he decided.

  But if she was planning to go with him, he preferred the pants she had on the first time they rode to the Bar C. Slocum asked, “Feel like a jaunt this morning?”

  The corners of Miranda’s mouth turned up and her eyes looked downright devilish. She said in husky tones, “Depends. What you got on your mind, cowboy?”

  “Thought we’d do a little exploring. Maybe see if we can find that pipestone quarry, maybe do some target practicing. You might bring that derringer along, if you’ve a mind to. We’ll see what comes up.” Slocum’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “You remember that gold piece I found on the way here?”

  Miranda nodded. “Wouldn’t forget something like that.”

  “Well now there’s two.”

  Miranda’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped.

  “Two what?” Abel Cassidy groused, as he walked into the dining room and sat at the head of the table. He wasn’t at all pleased to see that little prick tease, Miranda, talking to Slocum.

  Somebody needed to teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget—and pretty damned soon. Abel was counting on being the teacher.

  No, he was not pleased.

  He’d expected to be long gone and out on the range before either of them cracked an eyelid.

  All his careful planning. All his careful work. Everything was coming unhinged.

  Now besides Marcus and Foley blackmailing him, he’d have to get rid of Slocum as well as Miranda—something he was not looking forward to tackling.

  Why couldn’t the little bitch have left well enough alone? She was more meddlesome than his brother had ever been.

  Smarter, too.

  But she was a damn sight easier on the eyes. He felt himself getting hard.

  “Forgot to tell you last night, Slocum,” he said, willing his erection down, “Sam Donaldson—he’s our undertaker in Apache Wells—brought Dave Crone’s body here for burial. Just like you asked. Said to stop off in town and he’d give you his saddle.”

  He paused. “Said the old codger didn’t have much else. A couple of the boys put Dave up in the old cowboy cemetery and read a few Bible words over him.”

  “You mentioned it, Abel,” Slocum said. Was the old boy getting senile, too? Either that, or his anger had erased the memory. Either way, it didn’t bode well.

  “I did?” Abel asked, and forced a smile. “Must be gettin’ absent minded or something.”

  Humming, Carmelita bustled into the dining room balancing two heaping plates and a platterful of hot wheat and corn tortillas. She set one plate in front of Miranda and the other in front of Slocum, then poured Abel a mug of coffee.

  “I bring your food right away, Señor Cassidy.”

  Abel watched Slocum tear off a chunk of corn tortilla and sop up some egg yolk before stuffing it into his mouth.

  “How’s that arm?”

  Slocum washed his food down with a gulp of coffee before he answered. “Stiff. But it’ll be fit as a fiddle in a day or two.”

  That arm wasn’t the only stiff thing in the room. Abel shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Nice day for a ride,” he said, making small talk. Those two had been jabbering like a couple jaybirds when he came into the room. Now they acted like they had lockjaw.

  When it was clear he was not going to get anything out of them, he said, “I’ll be gone most of the day. Got to see to that order for army mounts.”

  Carmelita’s feet swished across the floor. She laid a plate of eggs, sausage, and home fries with onion in front of Abel. He guessed she was in cahoots with them, too.

  Abel knew his brother had been dipping his measuring stick into her well for a long time. He should have dismissed her ass the day Judah had died. Would have if she hadn’t been such a good cook.

  Abel shoveled his mouth full of home fries.

  “More eggs, Señor Slocum?” Carmelita asked.

  “You tryin’ to fatten me up?” Slocum patted her ample rump, sending Carmelita into squeals of laughter.

  Abel had seen enough foolishness for one morning. He gulped down his coffee, took another bite of potato, and scooped the eggs and sausage into a couple flour tortillas to take along.

  10

  “What’s got into him?” Slocum asked as the screen door banged behind Abel.

  Miranda shrugged. “Hard to tell. But I suppose it has somethin’ to do with Marcus and Foley and you and, well, everything.”

  “Miranda . . .” Slocum began trying to couch his words carefully. But he couldn’t. So he said, “You ever stop to think that your uncle Abel might be mixed up in this thing?”

  Miranda drew herself up and glared at him. “Uncle Abel? Kill his own horses? Are you crazy, Slocum?”

  “There’s more goin’ on here than horse killin’, and you know it.”

  “I do?”

  Slocum took a deep breath to tamp his anger down. Miranda was playing dumb on purpose.

  It didn’t suit her.

  He said, “Stop and think about it, girl. Don’t it seem a coincidence that Vance Jefferson turned up on Abel’s spread, followed by Marcus and Foley? Don’t it seem kind of funny that the horse killin’s started around then? And ain’t it odd that we found a couple of double eagles just lyin’ on the ground, out by the stream?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But what in the hell does one thing have to do with the others?”

  “Don’t know,” said Slocum. “But I’m gonna find out if it’s the last thing I do.”

  By the time they’d ridden out halfway to the canyon and the pool, Miranda had gotten over her sharpness. Apparently she had taken Slocum’s theories to heart, or at least he hoped so.

  By the time they were three-quarters of the way there, she was chattering like a magpie, and Slocum was happy to let her carry on. It beat the hell out of her icy silence.

  He’d kept an eye open for company—namely Marcus and Foley—since they left the ranch, but so far had seen nothing.

  This was good. He imagined he and Miranda had left before half the hands were all the way out of their bunks.

  When they reached the little cascading stream and its pool, they ground-tied the horses and set out on foot, at Slocum’s suggestion.

  “Let’s see if we can’t find where your daddy found those carvings,” he said.

  Miranda cocked a brow. “If we’re gonna do something totally unrelated to any of the problems at hand, I think we oughta take advantage of the pool. If you know what I mean. And I’m sure you do.”

  Slocum grinned. “Let’s play hide-and-seek for the pipestone first, and then the other, all right?”

  Miranda shrugged, and set off up the hill, climbing carefully.

  Slocum followed, although he wasn’t entirely certain she was going in the right direction. She acted as if she’d climbed this rise a dozen times before—at least, she seemed certain where all the handholds and footholds were—but he wanted to explore new territory.

  Still, he followed her up her familiar path. But then, about halfway up, something caught his eye. It was the narrow shadow of a concavity some fifteen feet to the side, and he began to work his way over to it.

  Miranda happened to glance back, and she hollered, “Hey! Where you going?”

  “You ever been over this way?” he shouted back.

  She climbed down a few steps, then began to sidle across the rock wall after him.

  At last, he reached the shadow, which turned into a narrow slit in the rock face. He popped a lucifer with his thumbnail and held it inside the cave.

  No critters anyway. But the rock showed streaks of red-and-white marbled rock.

  Pipestone, in Arizona!

  “I’ll be double damned,” he muttered.

  “Probably,” said Miranda, from behind him. “Are you going to tell me what’s in there or not?”

  “The source of your daddy’s trinkets,” he said, and shook out the lucifer. It was burning his fingers. “Outcrop of pipestone.”

  “Can we get inside?” she asked eagerly.

  “Reckon.” He flicked another lucifer to life, held it out ahead of him, sucked in his stomach, and squeezed through the opening. Then he held his hand out to Miranda, who slipped through the opening with no problem.

  Her hand went immediately to the streaked stone of the wall. “You’re right!” she said.

  He grinned. “You don’t have to act so surprised about it. I usually am, you now.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . Oh, you!” she said, and playfully pushed against his chest.

  Slocum could see where men, long ago, had chopped stone from the walls, sometimes roughly, sometimes delicately. The cave was barely tall enough for him to stand in, and about ten feet deep.

  There were areas where the digging went back several feet into the rock, others where it went back only a few inches, and some where stone seemed to have been sheared off even with the walls.

  But there was no time for further investigation, because Miranda was pulling at his sleeve. “All right, we found daddy’s pipestone. Can we visit the pool now, Slocum? My clothes are all . . . itchy.”