The Brothers of Hastings Ridge Ranch

“I’m not entirely positive why I left,” Zane said. “I guess I thought my chances were better on my own than being stuck in that place. Besides, what did I do to get in this kind of trouble? I’d kind of like to find that out before the police do. Anyway, I didn’t know if they’d actually let me leave if I asked—I still don’t know whose going to pay my bill, for instance. So I sneaked away and that’s also more or less why I ended up at your house. I was going to borrow your phone and call Woods to try to explain, but I just decided against it.”

“Why?”

“I guess I don’t want him bugging you, and I don’t want him trying to get me back into the hospital. He’s a smart guy. He’ll see my boots are gone and talk to the guard on duty and learn I walked away out of choice and he’ll put two and two together. Maybe I’ll call when I get out of town.”

She nodded. His logic sounded reasonably sane to her. Well, at least as sane as escaping police protective custody to take your chances with a man who tried to kill you—twice.

“But I do need to borrow twenty dollars,” he added. “I’ll pay you back, I swear. If I’m going to hitchhike to Utah, I’m going to need something to eat along the way and I don’t have a penny. Eventually I can probably hock my boots—well, anyway, how about it?”

“Of course,” she said immediately. “The money is yours. And I’ll pack you a lunch to take with you.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Turkey on sour dough?”

“Anything you have,” he said, “will be appreciated.”

“I’m going to change clothes first, then I’ll make you a lunch. Are you hungry now?”

“No.”

Biting her lip, she added, “Zane, I should tell you that I found out why you had my name in your pocket. The grocer down the block from the gallery gave it to you because you were in the store asking about someone named Sherry or Mary Smith. Is there any chance that rings a bell?”

“None.”

She hit her forehead with her palm. “Why didn’t I think of the internet?” She retrieved her phone. A moment later, she shook her head. “Get this. There are over forty-seven million hits for Mary Smith.” She tapped the tiny electronic keypad again. “Over six million for Sherry Smith. Without an age or a career or a location, it’s impossible.” She fooled around a little more with the search engine, typing Mary Smith, New Orleans, and the same for Sherry Smith. Nothing that appeared relevant in any way showed up.

“Well, Mr. Lee promised he’d call Detective Woods and tell him about your being in his store,” she said with a sigh. She didn’t mention the fact that she’d asked Mr. Lee to keep Bill Dodge and his housekeeper out of it because she felt guilty about that. Zane needed all the help he could get and she had no right to deny him the turning of every stone. She just needed some time to try to make sense of things.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and quickly slipped out of her clothes, exchanging the dress for shorts and a T-shirt. She left her feet bare, splashed water on her face and went back into the main room where she found Zane still staring at the paintings that surrounded him.

“Aren’t you kind of warm in all those clothes?” she asked, and then felt her cheeks grow pink at the way those words could be taken.

He apparently didn’t read anything in her voice but what was there—concern for his comfort. “No, I’m fine.”

She sat down on the stool for a moment. “Zane, right after you asked about the Smith woman, you were hurt by an impulsive crazy person. I bet if we asked Woods where the real courier was robbed, it would turn out to be close to the grocery store. I think your attacker was in that store. Maybe he followed you.” She stopped short of finishing the sentence—or maybe you came in together.

Was that possible?

“I was also hurt right after the grocer gave me your name,” Zane said, smothering a yawn and apologizing for it. “I can’t make sense of any of it and that’s what’s so frustrating.”

“It’ll come. I’ll go make the sandwiches.” She padded into the adjoining kitchen and got to work. She made him two generous sandwiches, found an ice pack in the freezer and a bottle of sweet tea in the refrigerator, included the apple and the banana she’d bought earlier and threw in a few granola bars for good measure. She’d been to the bank earlier that day so she knew she still had a couple of ATM twenties in her wallet.

When she turned to look back in the living room, she found Zane had fallen asleep with his head thrown back, his hands lying on the cushion next to his thighs, his legs sprawled in front of him as though he’d finally surrendered to his long, arduous day. His breathing seemed steady and deep and, without the impact of his gaze, he appeared wan and worn out. She bent to shake his shoulder and he turned slightly at her touch, his breath warm against her hand, but didn’t waken.

Up close like this, the bruises on his throat looked like bloody fingerprints, red and ugly, grotesque in their cruelty and intent. A bright red dot of blood had seeped through the bandage over the stitches on his cheek.

She straightened up without touching him again, staring down at him for a moment, moved by his plight, touched by his decency and scared for his life. And totally intrigued.

How were they connected, where did her mother fit into this? Did Ryan have something to do with what happened? Could he have been the phony cyclist? She didn’t think so, but was she positive?

No answers, not tonight, anyway. She quietly put the bag of food in the refrigerator, dimmed the lights and with one last look at the gorgeous man asleep on her love seat, closed the bedroom door behind her.

Five minutes later, she slept.

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