The Bluest Eyes in Texas

Steering away from that line of thought, he refocused on Bailey. “Are you a good enough P.I. that you attract clients in other states or are you so lousy that you have to go looking for business in other states where they don’t know you?”

Her smile was small and sarcastic. “The agency is good enough that they don’t have to go looking for business at all. It finds them.”

“Then how did you wind up working for a kid in Oklahoma?”

She toyed with one of the stack of napkins that had come with their drinks, folding it, creasing it with one long, slender finger, then smoothing it flat again. Finally she pushed it away and met his gaze. “Lexy’s my niece,” she said reluctantly, as if it might make a difference.

Did it? It certainly explained her willingness to threaten, coerce and blackmail. This wasn’t just a professional intent on keeping her promise to a client but an aunt determined to make her niece happy, which would make her harder to shake once Mac had been taken care of.

Harder. Not impossible.

The pimply kid called their number over the loudspeaker, and Logan left the table to pick up their tray. After a stop at another counter to add tiny paper cups of ketchup, he returned to the table, passed her food to her and unwrapped the foil paper around his hamburger.

So her sister was married to his brother. That made them almost…nothing. Hell, he didn’t even admit to having a brother. He sure wasn’t claiming Brady’s family, and by rights, his wife’s family didn’t even exist in Logan’s world.

Except Bailey did exist. She was all too real and all too big a pain.

“Is there anything you’d like to know about Brady and the girls?” she asked, her tone cautious as she dipped a thick-cut French fry in ketchup.

“Nope.”

“You know, he might be able to help you with this search. He’s the under—”

“Which part of ‘nope’ did you not understand?”

“Come on. A smart man accepts help when he needs it. This is a tough job to try alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he pointed out dryly. “I’ve got you.”

That made her fall silent for a while, long enough to eat half her hamburger and most of the fries. Then she looked at him again, wearing the expression he was coming to recognize as her stubborn, not-gonna-give-up look. “Aren’t you at all curious about him? About how he left home? About where he’s been and what he’s done these past nineteen years?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, gee, that hurts my feelings.”

“He’s your brother.”

“Like that means something. These are good burgers, aren’t they?” He dipped the ragged edge of his hamburger in ketchup, then took a big bite. Food was one of the few pleasures he’d found since returning from the war. Endless months of MREs—the prepackaged “meals ready to eat” that were the mainstay of combat troops’ diet—and the periodic hot meals they were served while in camp had left him craving old favorites like pizza, hamburgers and doughnuts. He’d lived off junk food for the last six months and could probably do it for the rest of his life.

Being the stubborn, naive type, Bailey didn’t get the message that he was through with the conversation. “It means something to Brady.”

He slowly chewed another bite while scowling at her. “You’ve got a sister.”

“Three, actually.”

“And you’re just the best of friends with all three of them.”

“We’re close.”

“Goody for you. You wanna be best friends with ’em, fine. It’s none of my business. I don’t wanna be best friends with Brady, and that’s none of your business.”

Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. “I just don’t understand—”

“You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”

“What about your nieces? Aren’t you the least bit interested in them?”

He considered that while he polished off his burger. He’d never been a kid-friendly person, not even when he was a kid himself. Back then, pain, shame and the fear of discovery had kept him and Brady from getting close to other kids. As he’d grown up, he’d come to view kids as nuisances best kept at a distance. They started life crying, smelly and needy, before turning into a whiny, troublemaking subhuman species. Given a choice, he would never deal with anyone younger than eighteen. At least by then, they’d reached the point where they stood a chance of becoming a real person.

His silence brought a bit of hope to Bailey’s expression that he dashed when he finally answered. “No. Not the least bit.”

She scowled at him as she crumpled her wrapper with enough force that she was probably imagining it was his throat. “You’re a jerk—you know that?”

“A jerk,” he repeated, amused. “Now that really hurts my feelings. Is that the best you can come up with?”

Shoving her chair back so hard it would have fallen if not for the table behind them, she stood up, then leaned toward him. “No. You’re a selfish, self-centered, rude, cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard who doesn’t deserve to have someone like Brady, Lexy and Brynn in his life. You could go straight to hell for all I care, but I made a promise to Lexy, and you made one to me, and by God, we’re both going to keep them or I’ll kill you myself.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode to the door. He watched her go as he finished his fries. If he was lucky, she would find her way back to Pineville, pick up her car and get the hell out of his life.

But he hadn’t been lucky in a long time.

He wasted another ten minutes before clearing his table and heading for the motel. As he rounded the back corner, the first thing he saw was Bailey, sitting on the sidewalk outside their room. It was hard to tell from her stony expression whether she’d cooled down. Not that he cared. Traveling with an unwanted companion was tough. Having her too pissed off to talk to him, though, just might make it bearable.

He unlocked the door, went inside and left it standing open. He was pulling back the covers on the bed nearest the door when she finally came inside.

“It’s not even eight o’clock,” she commented.

“You can tell time. Good.”

“You can’t be going to bed before eight o’clock.”

He bunched up the bedspread to one side, then untucked the sheets from under the mattress before facing her. “I got about three hours’ sleep last night and I’ve been dealing with a major pain in the ass today. I’m tired. I want to sleep. You can watch TV or read the Good Book—” he gestured toward the battered Bible on the night table “—or twiddle your thumbs. I don’t care. Just whatever you do, be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”

She yanked the pillows free of the spread on the second bed, mashed them against the headboard, then plopped herself down and switched on the television.

After securing the locks on the doors, Logan emptied his pockets on the nightstand, including his car keys. Bailey’s gaze instantly went to them, then away. Would she hide them as soon as she judged he was asleep? Probably. It didn’t matter. If he left her, it would be someplace a hell of a lot more remote than Dallas.

He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, then stripped to his boxers. When he turned to slide between the covers, he heard a gasp that started loud, then choked off, as if she’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Scowling, he turned to look at her and saw that was indeed what she’d done.

He held her gaze a long time, daring her to ask, but she swallowed hard, lowered her hand and said nothing. Satisfied, he eased into bed, shut off the lamp on his side of the center table, rolled over and went to sleep.

Bailey kept the sound on the television low so it wouldn’t disturb Logan, but she couldn’t concentrate on the show. He’d undressed so casually—something of a surprise considering that they were practically strangers while at the same time not surprising at all considering what an ass he’d been. She’d been trying not to watch—not an easy task when he was all smooth brown skin and hard, sinewy muscle—but when he’d turned his back to her…

His back was striped with scars, some no more than thin, pale lines, others thickened and white. They’d stretched from side to side, from shoulder to opposite hip, some disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers, and they’d looked…horrible.

She could think of only one way to get scars like that: torture. He’d been beaten with a strap of some sort, beaten until his skin was torn, raw and bloody. Her first thought was the war—the enemy wasn’t known for treating prisoners humanely—but he hadn’t been taken prisoner. Besides, these were old scars, existing prior to his time in the Army.

Which left his parents as the most likely source. That explained his hatred for them, his utter lack of interest in whether they lived or died. But why did he hate his brother? God forbid, had Brady taken part in the abuse?

She didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She’d watched her brother-in-law with Hallie and with the girls. He was far too gentle, too good a soul. He protected people. He didn’t hurt them.

More likely Brady had been the favored son, the elder who could do no wrong, and Logan resented him for that. She’d read enough about child abuse to know it was sometimes like that—the parents would single out one child for all the punishment, all the rage, while treating the others the way loving parents should.

It was the only explanation she could come up with.

Nearly two hours had passed when a yawn shook her out of her thoughts. She shut off the television and rose from the bed, lifting her suitcase into the space. Usually she slept in a tank top and panties, both so skimpy they were only a step up from being naked. Tonight she dug a T-shirt from the bag, then took it into the bathroom along with her tote bag.

She combed her hair, washed off her makeup, moisturized her face, then changed into the T-shirt. It was about four sizes smaller than she would have liked and eight or ten inches shorter, but unless she developed a fondness for sleeping fully dressed, it was the best she could do. Hesitantly she returned to the bedroom, slid hastily beneath the covers, then reached to turn out the lamp.

For a long moment she lay there, leaning on one elbow, the other hand stilled on the switch, her gaze fixed on Logan’s keys. It wasn’t likely he would leave her there. Surely his preference would run to some West Texas town miles from nowhere. Still, that one percent doubt made her switch off the lamp, then scoop up the keys and slide them under the covers with her. He would probably be smugly amused at this proof that she didn’t trust him, and she was getting tired of his smugness, but better safe than sorry, right?

She’d settled on her side, the key ring looped over one finger and tucked under the pillow that supported her head, and was concentrating on slow, even breaths when a gravelly voice came out of the darkness.

“You counting on me to be gentleman enough to not root through those covers for my keys?”

Damn. She would have sworn he was asleep. “A gentleman would be the last thing I’d mistake you for,” she replied, keeping her own voice quiet in the darkness. “I’m counting on waking up if you do start rooting.”

“You make me sound like a damn pig.”

“I was merely using your word. Besides, sometimes you act like one.”

His chuckle was mild. “Any other insults you want to add?”

“I’ll let you know as they come to mind.” She tucked the covers under her chin, making a tight little cocoon for herself, then plumped the pillow under her head. It would be best to end the conversation right there, to close her eyes and pretend to sleep until she actually drifted off. She doubted he would object.

But she didn’t close her eyes or let things drop. “Those scars on your back…did your parents give you those?”

This time there was nothing light about his chuckle. “The only thing they ever gave me that mattered.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

She couldn’t take offense at his dismissal. An apology was such a little thing, and coming from a stranger, it meant nothing. Nothing could make right what his parents had done to him, except possibly knowing that they would suffer for it in hell.

She listened to his steady breathing for a while. With anyone else, she would take it as a sign he was asleep. With him, assuming anything was likely to prove that trite old saying about making an ass of you and me.

As the bedside clock rolled over to eleven, Bailey was convinced she would never fall asleep, but the next time she glanced at it for confirmation, it read six thirty-three. She was about to turn over and snooze again when her gaze slid past the clock to the other bed. Logan was dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, his jaw was freshly shaved, his hair was damp from his shower and he was watching the morning news with the volume muted.

There was something incredibly disconcerting about the fact that he’d been up and about while she’d lain sleeping, dead to the world. It made her feel vulnerable, although clearly he hadn’t disturbed her. She’d slept through whatever noise he might have made, and her little cocoon was tucked as securely as it had been last night. More importantly—she thrust her hand under the pillow, searching until her fingers closed around cool metal—he hadn’t retrieved his keys and abandoned her.

Although she would have sworn she’d made no noise and no movement other than opening her eyes and locating the keys, he knew she was awake. Without glancing in her direction, he asked, “Are you planning to lie there all day? ’Cause I’m leaving in half an hour.”

Slowly she sat up, keeping the covers around her. “I need to take a shower.”

“Then get moving.”

Maybe he had zero modesty, but she did—and no robe either. “Couldn’t you wait outside?”

Finally he turned his head to look at her. His expression was as dry as the desert in August. “I saw you get into bed last night. Unless your panties shrank during the night, there’s not going to be anything new to see this morning.”

Scowling at him, she maneuvered the bedspread free of the other covers, then wrapped it around her before awkwardly rising from the bed. It took an effort, but she managed to make it as far as the bathroom door with her suitcase and tote bag before shedding the cover and disappearing inside. She locked the door, scooted her bags up against it, then tossed the car keys on top.

When she came out a short while later, showered, shampooed and shaved, he was sprawled in the same position, with the volume turned up on the television. He gave no sign of noticing her except to say, “You’ve got nine minutes.”

Brush her teeth, dry her hair, fix it, put on makeup and re-pack in nine minutes? Yeah, right. Even at her quickest, she needed a minimum of fifteen minutes before she would be ready to walk out the door.

She brushed her teeth first, then shoved yesterday’s clothes into an outside pocket of the suitcase. She was just finishing her makeup when Logan’s reflection appeared in the mirror. He came too close, reached around and patted her pockets to locate his keys in the right one. He was wiggling his fingers into the tight space when she spun around, slapping at his hand. “Hey! Stop that!”

He didn’t, of course. “Time’s up. I’m outta here.”

She used one of her self-defense moves, grabbing his hand, putting pressure on the sensitive spot, bending it back. He didn’t let out a squeal like the last guy she’d done it to and he didn’t back off—the last guy had dropped to one knee—but he did stop probing in her pocket.

“I’m ready,” she said in a warning tone.

His gaze flickered to her hair, still wet and combed straight back from her face. She neither wanted nor needed his confirmation that it wasn’t a flattering style, but she could take care of that in the car.

“Just grab my suitcase,” she went on in the same voice, “and I’ll be right behind you.”

“Grab your own suitcase, lady. I’m not your servant.” He yanked his hand free, snatched up his duffle and headed for the door.

Gritting her teeth, Bailey shoved everything but a comb into the tote bag, then rummaged inside for an elastic band and some gold clips. Feeling like a pack mule, she hauled her stuff to the car outside and, smiling the phoniest polite smile she could manage, handed him the keys.

“Are we stopping for breakfast?” she asked as they settled in their respective seats.

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

She did, but she wasn’t about to insist on it. If he wanted to be inconsiderate, let him. Eventually they would have to stop for gas, and when they did, she would stock up on munchies to get her through the quirks of his schedule.

The morning air was cool enough that they didn’t need the windows down more than a few inches, so she took advantage of the relative calm to French braid her hair. It was a job best done by someone else, in front of a mirror and not in the confines of a small car, but at last she was satisfied with the results, at least from the front. She couldn’t see how the back looked and decided it didn’t matter.

“You could just cut it,” Logan said when she was finally finished.

“Or, gee, you could have given me five minutes to dry it.”

He shrugged. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time to shower and make yourself presentable. It’s not as if you were ugly to start.”

Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him, then she offered a simpering smile. “Why, thank you for that gracious compliment, Mr. Marshall.”

Wonder of wonders, he actually shifted uncomfortably and color darkened his face. “I wasn’t offering a compliment—just stating the facts.”

She dropped the comb in her purse, then tilted her head back. It was a lovely morning. She’d slept well; her store of patience wasn’t dribbling away like sand in an hourglass—yet—and she’d made Logan Marshall blush. Things were going so well at the moment that she might even make an effort to be sociable.

Another wonder—the same thought had apparently occurred to Logan, because before she could think of anything to say, he spoke. “How’d you wind up with a name like Bailey?”

“Hey, Bailey is a perfectly respectable name.”

“Yeah, generally a perfectly respectable last name or man’s name.”

“Logan is generally a last name, too.” So was Brady, for that matter.

“Logan’s a family name.”

“So is Bailey…sort of.” When he glanced her way, she shrugged. “When my mother got pregnant the first time, she knew exactly what she was going to name her son—Lee Aubrey Madison the third. But she had a daughter, so she named her Neely. I came next and got Bailey. Then there’s Hallie and Kylie.”

“Good thing she stopped before she got to Holly, Molly and Polly.”

“At least if we all had to be lees, we got unusual lees.” Without pausing, she went right on. “You said Logan’s a family name. Whose?”

“It’s my paternal grandmother’s maiden name.”

“And Brady is…your maternal grandmother’s maiden name?”

His only response was the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where do the other lees live?”

“Neely’s in Heartbreak, Oklahoma. She’s a lawyer and her husband’s the county sheriff. Hallie’s in Buffalo Plains, about twenty miles away. She’s a stay-at-home mom and her husband is—” she caught his warning breath “—not open to discussion. And Kylie lives in Dallas, where she’s happily single and breaking hearts every day.”

“Why didn’t you call her last night?”

“Oh, I don’t think that would have been a good idea. She would have asked a lot of questions and she’s not nearly as tactful as I am.” Besides, Kylie would have wanted to do something, and Bailey never could have relaxed with Logan out of her sight. The rat likely carried an extra set of keys to the car and would have been long gone before she returned.

“You’re the tactful one.” His words were heavy with doubt.

“No, actually I’m the smart one. People labeled us when we were kids to help keep us straight. Neely’s the determined one, Hallie’s the popular one, Kylie’s the pretty one, and I’m the smart one.”

“And the hardheaded one,” he muttered.

“Oh, we’re all pretty hardheaded,” she said easily. “Besides, you’ve got no room to talk. You’re about as stubborn as they come.”

He treated her to a dry, sarcastic smile and repeated her earlier words to her. “Thank you for that gracious compliment.”

“Hey, I told you I’d pass on any impressions as they came to mind.” She kicked off her shoes, propped one foot in the narrow space between window glass and door frame, then pressed the stereo on button. “Let’s see if we can agree on good music.”

Chapter 3

They couldn’t.

She liked country; he liked rock. She could listen to classical; he’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia. She couldn’t stand techno; he wasn’t about to sit through unending hours of jazz.

The radio went back off and stayed that way.

“God, does this state never end?” she groused. It was mid-afternoon, and the temperature had risen a few degrees past comfortable about sixty miles back. She looked cranky, and Logan felt it.

“Nope, it goes on forever. When I left home, it took me six months to get from Marshall City to Pineville.”

That made her look at him—something she’d avoided doing after they’d gone through the entire radio dial, AM and FM, three times without finding anything to agree on. He’d been happy being ignored and he’d done a good job ignoring her in return, though he had stopped for lunch when he heard her stomach growling.

“You were fifteen,” she commented. “Where did you go?”

Vaguely he wished he hadn’t mentioned that last part. The last time he’d talked in any detail about running away had been to Sam and Ella, right after he’d gotten caught stealing food from their crops.

But he’d opened the subject, and nearly twenty years had gone by, and none of it really mattered anymore. “I hitched rides to Dallas and stayed there a while, until I realized I hadn’t gone far enough.” He’d been doing okay. He’d hooked up with some other homeless kids, and they had shown him the ins and outs of living on the street. He’d gone hungry a lot, and home had been a ratty mattress in an abandoned building, but it had been a better life than he’d ever known living in the family mansion in Marshall City.

Then one day he and his buddies had been hanging out downtown, picking pockets, looking for trouble, and he’d seen a familiar face. Business trips to Dallas weren’t unusual for his father; he’d just never thought he could possibly run into him in a city of that size.

That afternoon he’d headed east, intending to keep moving until he’d reached the Atlantic Ocean. He’d made it only so far as Pineville. A few years later, when he hadn’t needed to run, he hadn’t stopped at the ocean. Germany, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq…

“What made you stop in Pineville?” Bailey asked.

“My last ride let me off there. I was headed east, but he’d turned north before I realized it. He let me out at the Jensens’ road. I was hungry, so I decided a little alfresco dining would be nice and I got caught.” He shrugged as if that was the end of the story.

“Most people who catch someone stealing from them don’t invite him into their homes and make him a part of their families.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “Most people don’t.”

“They must have been very special.”

They’d never been able to have a family of their own—not that they hadn’t tried. Ella had miscarried four times, and the one baby who’d made it to term had died three days after birth. That was when she’d accepted that God intended her to mother other people’s children, and she’d done it with a vengeance. Everyone in town had regarded her as the mother or grandmother they’d always wanted.

“Is there any doubt that Pete MacGregor killed them?”

“None.”

“Is there any proof?”

Logan felt the tension growing inside him. It was always there, and had been for nearly a year, but sometimes it was so strong he could feel it hum. This was one of those times. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, ground his jaws together and answered in carefully controlled words. “I left that morning to go to a doctor’s appointment. The only people at the farm were Sam, Ella and Mac. When I got back that afternoon, I found Sam’s body in front of the barn and Ella’s on the kitchen floor. The farm truck was missing, and so was Mac. Who do you think killed them?”