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  "Alive? She's barely hurt. I want her dead. Now."

  "She's just a friggin' physical therapist. What's so important about knocking her off?"

  "That's not your concern. I give the orders. You take them. It's called 'money rules.' You have one week, or the deal is off."

  Sweat pooled under his armpits and dampened the front of his shirt in spite of the fact that the air conditioner in his Houston apartment was clunking along at full power. He needed that money. He could clear out of the country with it, leave his enemies behind and live like a king in Mexico on what he'd get for this job. But a week...

  "I need more time. She's living at Jack's Bluff. I can't just storm the place and take her out. They have security and gun-wielding wranglers everywhere."

  "One week. Work fast. You're not the only one whose time is running out."

  Chapter Nine

  Jeremiah hobbled into the first-floor study exactly twenty-two minutes past their scheduled meeting time. She knew he had neither forgotten the appointment nor become confused about the meeting time. She'd found him in the front yard talking to Billy Mack about five minutes before they were supposed to meet and reminded him.

  He swung his cane as he sat down, banging it against the leg of a bookcase before propping it against his chair. "A pretty young woman like you ought to have better things to do with her time than waste it talking to an old codger like me."

  "I'm getting paid for my time and I certainly hope it won't be a waste."

  "You could have saved yourself a trip to Texas if my daughter-in-law wasn't always trying to do my thinking for me. I may not get around like a young whippersnapper, but I'm not senile."

  "Glad to hear that," Shelly said. "I don't treat senility, but I'm a very competent physical therapist. I'm pretty sure I can help you—if you're willing to put forth some effort."

  Jeremiah checked his watch as if he had another appointment, then frowned as if he were late for it. "I'm over a year post-stroke and not stupid. I know the odds of seeing any kind of improvement at this point are slim to none."

  "Actually, recent research has proved that certain exercises used routinely can lead to substantial improvements in balance and range of motion." Fortunately, she'd done her homework. "I can show you articles on that if you'd like."

  "Keep your articles." He picked up his cane and pointed it toward the window. "You see that big oak tree out there?"

  She nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

  "I planted it the year my only child was born."

  He had to be talking about Lenora's late husband. That would make the tree approximately six decades old. She'd known that Randolph was the only heir to the Collingsworth fortune before he'd fathered his own large brood.

  "I built this house, too," Jeremiah continued, "with my own hands and little help from anyone else."

  "You did a great job. It's still in marvelous shape." She still had no idea what point he was trying to make, or if he had one.

  "I made Collingsworth Oil what it is today, too."

  Now, they might be getting somewhere.

  Jeremiah scratched a pale, wrinkled cheek, then nudged his brass-rimmed glasses up the thin bridge of his nose. "Sure my son improved the bottom line. So has Langston, but I set the wheels in motion. I made deals they'd never think of, took risks they'd never dare."

  His mouth started to twitch and he stared into space, finally letting a smile reach his lips. At first she thought he'd lost his train of thought—a not so uncommon trait for men his age even if they haven't suffered a stroke—but when he spoke again, she knew he was merely reliving a time when he'd felt far more potent than he did today.

  The smile disappeared and his expression became drawn. "I was worth something to my family back then. Now I'm just a liability. And my huffing and sweating and taking on a hundred more aches in these worn-out joints just so they can feel like they tried to rehabilitate me isn't going to change the fact that I'm old. So take your theories and your exercises and go back to Atlanta."

  In spite of his bluster, he was clearly depressed over the changes since the stroke and quite likely afraid of failure if he went back into therapy. He had probably never shown weakness nor felt this powerless in his life.

  Her heart went out to him. She wished that it didn't. Sympathizing with him made trying to wheedle information so much more difficult. But she had no choice, especially now that she knew his mental functioning was more stable than first impressions had suggested.

  He'd been CEO of Collingsworth Enterprises until the stroke, and knowing what she did of his personality, she suspected he'd run things the way he saw fit, whether or not Langston agreed. Admittedly, he took risks and made deals they wouldn't have considered.

  Yet he was out of the office and apparently uninvolved with company operations and the money continued to exchange hands—and at an escalated rate.

  Jeremiah leaned forward, using his cane for support. "Go home, or stay here on the ranch if you like. It doesn't make two cents' worth of difference to me. Just don't badger me about therapy. It's not going to happen."

  "It's your call," she said. There was no reason to antagonize him, when her purpose was to get close. "I'd love to hear more about your work with Collingsworth Enterprises, though. Big deals. Risk taking. It sounds as if you've had an exciting life."

  He studied her, likely judging whether or not she was serious or merely humoring him. He must have decided in her favor, since he leaned back in his chair and let go of the cane.

  "The oil business is not what people think it is. Those complainers always screaming about the price of gasoline don't know the half of what we go through to keep their big cars running."

  "They should probably talk to you," she said.

  "Dart tootin' they should. It's not the Beverly Hillbillies, you know. You don't just walk out in your backyard and find oil. You gotta spend money and go hunting for it."

  "You must have to make deals with all kinds of people."

  He nodded. "Especially today. The world's changing. The balance of power is steadily shifting." His hands knotted into bony fists and his voice rose. "And now we got the CIA breathing down our neck." He was practically screaming now. "The CIA doesn't have jack squat—"

  "What's going on here?"

  The interruption startled Shelly. She looked up to see Matt's brother Bart standing in the doorway—his eyes narrowed, yet piercing.

  He glared at Jeremiah. "What's the problem?"

  "I'm educating Shelly about the oil business," Jeremiah said.

  "I'm sure Shelly's not interested in the inner workings of the company. Besides, you know our rule. What goes on at Collingsworth Oil stays at Collingsworth Oil."

  "I thought that was Vegas," Shelly joked, trying to ease the tension that had walked in with Bart. No such luck.

  "Is the therapy session over?" Bart asked.

  "Never got started," Jeremiah said. "Never going to."

  "In that case, how about taking a ride over to Tom Greer's with me. He's cutting his operations back since his wife was hurt in that car wreck in February, and he's got some hay-baling equipment he wants to sell."

  "Since when do you want my opinion on equipment?"

  "I don't. I'd just like your company and you and Tom always find things to talk about."

  Shelly didn't buy it. What he wanted was to keep Jeremiah from saying more about the CIA. It was just her luck that Bart would show up at that precise moment. Her would-be patient had been in the mood to talk. She'd see that she found time alone with Jeremiah again, hopefully before the day was over.

  Jeremiah departed with Bart, leaving her to ponder a half dozen possibilities she couldn't back up with facts. Maybe Jeremiah had been the one to initially secure oil deals by contributing to terrorist causes. But who had taken over where he left off? Langston? Lenora? Or was it as Brady believed—an accepted practice of Collingsworth Enterprises with multiple family members savvy and going along with the pra
ctice?

  But then Brady only knew the family by reputation. He hadn't eaten with them, slept in their houses. Hadn't kissed Matt Collingsworth.

  Her lips tingled at the memory, followed by a crush of longing that swept through every inch of her. She gathered her resolve.

  This case was far too important, and if she stepped down from the case, there was no way the agency could just slide another agent into her spot; she was the only agent who was a licensed physical therapist.

  Yet the memory of the kiss clung to her lips and her mind as if she'd been bewitched.

  * * *

  The big house was exceptionally quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Lenora and Jaime were at their jobs in downtown Houston. Becky had taken her young sons and the two boisterous lab puppies—one of which belonged to the honeymooning couple—to visit friends at a neighboring ranch. Matt was nowhere to be seen, and even Juanita had finished dinner preparations and gone back to her own house for a few hours downtime.

  Apparently her schedule was flexible. She showed up in the mornings, put breakfast on the table and stayed busy in the kitchen all morning. Lunch was on the table at twelve and eaten by whoever showed up. The participants varied, but usually included Becky and her sons, a wrangler named Joe Bob who was practically family and totally charming, and sometimes Bart and Jaclyn.

  Shelly had shown up every day, hoping to glean some tidbit of useful information. That had been a bust, though she'd loved talking to Bart's wife, Jaclyn, and found her open and interesting.

  Becky was more difficult to relate to. She was friendly, but nowhere near as outgoing as her younger sister Jaime. She never talked about herself or her estranged husband. The boys, however, talked about their dad almost constantly. It was clear they missed him and couldn't wait for their summer visit with him in July.

  Shelly picked up one of the family albums from the bookshelf in the family room and dropped to the sofa to peruse the snapshots. She skimmed the first few pages, mostly images of a much younger Lenora and a very handsome man who must have been her late husband, Randolph. These must have been taken right after their marriage—or before. Lenora didn't appear to be much past her teens when the pictures were taken.

  Shelly turned the next page and a loose snapshot slipped from the folds and fell into her lap. There was writing on the back and Shelly checked that out even before looking at the photo.

  / love you more than life itself, Randolph Collingsworth, and I can't wait to marry you and bear your children. Your world will be my world. Hugs and a million kisses, Lenora.

  Lenora had been so young, yet she'd followed her heart. It had worked for her. She was one of the lucky ones.

  Shelly's mother had fared much worse. She'd chosen the wrong man—over and over again. A half dozen stepfathers and more "uncles" than Shelly cared to remember had taken up residence in their house. Shelly had even liked a few of them. No matter. None ever stayed for long.

  Restless now and haunted by memories she preferred to leave cloaked in shadows, Shelly retuned the album to the shelf and walked toward the back door, swinging through it for a reviving breath of fresh air.

  She'd made it to the bottom step before an uneasy feeling sent a shiver up her spine. Apprehension and training cued her senses, and she scanned the area looking for movement and listening for any errant sounds. A slight breeze rustled the leaves in the nearby oak trees and ruffled her short hair. A crow cawed. Another answered.

  Nothing amiss, but the flesh around her freshly dressed wound prickled, a reminder of the bullets that had fallen all around her mere days ago.

  A car engine sounded in the distance, coming steadily nearer. A shaky breath burst from her lungs. She wouldn't be alone much longer. The relief that accompanied that thought both surprised and disturbed her. Even temporary timidity in a CIA agent was unacceptable.

  The car pulled up in the driveway and Jaime jumped out as soon as the engine died. She waved to Shelly, while a tall man dressed in cowboy attire climbed from the passenger seat. Shelly recognized him instantly as the young cowboy who'd been staring at her in Cutter's Bar the other night.

  Jaime hung on his arm as they crossed the drive and joined Shelly at the back door. "This is Leland Adams," she said, draping herself over his shoulder and holding on to his arm as if he might try to escape. "Leland, meet Shelly, my grandfather's new physical therapist."

  He showed no signs of recognizing her and she decided it was best not to point out that he'd been casually flirting with her in the bar.

  "Leland's new in town," Jaime said.

  So he had likely been looking for a woman to hook up with the other night. She wasn't sure how Jaime had connected with him so quickly, but she could have met him before then or else last night when she'd gone out with friends.

  A lonesome cowboy would notice Jaime at once. She was what the hip magazines would classify as a super hottie. Great looks, a sparkling personality and dressed to entice.

  "I'm going to give Leland a quick tour of the house and then we're driving out to the lake to catch dinner and a sunset—if there's one to catch. The weather forecast predicted a line of thunderstorms heading this way."

  Shelly glanced out the window. There was no sign of rain, but she knew from her research that Houston weather was unpredictable, something about the nearness to the Gulf of Mexico.

  "Tell Mom I'll be home early, since I have to work tomorrow." Jaime accompanied the word work with a gagging expression.

  "Spoken like a true heiress," Leland said.

  Obviously he was not so new to these parts that he didn't know of her family's wealth. But then the Collingsworth name ranked right up there with the Bush name in Texas prominence.

  Leland was the stranger. Shelly considered warning Jaime to be careful, but she didn't want to come across like an alarmist. In all likelihood, Leland wasjust a cute cowboy out for a good time.

  "Sounds like a fun evening," Shelly said. "But you'd best take good care of her, Leland. I'd hate to have her four brothers take you to task." If Leland was even half smart, that should be enough to keep him from trying anything with Jaime she didn't want.

  He grinned and raked his fingers through his scraggly hair. "I'll be a perfect gentleman."

  It struck Shelly again how odd it was for her to feel protective of a member of the family she was investigating on extremely serious charges.

  But, thus far, nothing about this assignment was textbook. Her goal was to blend into the family so seamlessly that they forgot she was around and talked freely in front of her. She'd expected that to require major effort on her part. Instead, the effort was in not becoming so much a part of the family that she couldn't see them objectively.

  Leland stopped and turned as he started to follow Jaime up the stairs. Shelly felt his stare boring into her just as she had the other night at Cutter's Bar. A second later, he looked away and took the stairs two at a time, easily catching up with Jaime before she reached the landing. He must have whispered something funny to her as he did, because their laughter echoed through the house.

  Restless, Shelly exited via the back door and strode off at a brisk pace. She was almost at the stable before she realized she'd unconsciously gone in that direction. The image of Matt flashed into her thoughts, his hair mussed and his chin whiskered from the sleepless night he'd spent bringing a reluctant colt into the world.

  Her knees seemed to liquefy as the image solidified and seared its way into every corner of her mind. Just hormones, she told herself, and her body's way of protesting the fact that it had been denied physical satisfaction for so long.

  Forcing her feet to keep going, she pushed through the door of the stable. Afternoon sun poured through the high windows, painting bright stripes of gold across the walls and the few horses that remained in their stalls. A cinnamon-colored steed whinnied and stuck his head over the stall door as if entreating her to pay him a visit or take him for a ride.

  She stopped at his stall and hesitantly rea
ched to scratch his nose the way she'd seen Matt do it this morning. He balked and backed away, pawing at the straw and sending it flying beneath his firm belly. Shelly jerked her hand away and backed up so fast she stumbled against the opposite stall.

  So she was jittery around horses. Big deal. She faced killers, didn't she?

  The stable door squeaked open. She steadied her breath and turned to see Matt and Bart step inside, their bodies haloed in a bright beam of sunlight.

  "Langston can handle it," Matt said.

  "He's been saying that for months, but the CIA shows no sign of letting this go."

  Shelly shrunk against the wall, thankful the rays of sun fell to the right of her, leaving her in the shadows. Hands at her side, she stood perfectly still, hoping the steed wouldn't give her away. Miraculously, the horse ignored her, his head turned as if he, too, was eavesdropping on the conversation.

  "They don't have anything," Matt said. "If they did, they'd be making arrests, not rattling cages."

  Shelly's heart slammed hard against her chest. Did this mean Matt was in on the payoffs?

  Bart knocked away a spider that had dropped from the ceiling on a silky thread and landed right in front of his nose. "The feds wouldn't be spending this much time on the investigation, if this wasn't more than a fishing trip."

  "Langston says it's under control," Matt reiterated. "And he's too shrewd a businessman to be leaving anything to chance."

  "He's got a pregnant wife ready to deliver within the month. That's his focus right now."

  "Can't blame him for that."

  "I'm not blaming. I'm just concerned, that's all. We can't afford..."

  The steed picked that moment to shake his head and snort loudly, drowning the last of Bart's sentence. The men swung their attention in her direction. Shelly gave up the shadows and stepped into the middle of the aisle that separated the rows of stalls, waving and smiling as if she hadn't heard a word of their conversation.

  Matt started toward her. "Couldn't stay away from Sakima, could you?"

  "Not a chance. He's so adorable."