Lone Star Diary

He steered the pickup off the highway onto a gravel ranch road.

For three miles, a straight and dusty path led past first Frankie’s parents’ white-frame two-story, with its gray-metal windmill and neat outbuildings, then past her sister Robbie’s squat old farmhouse, in much better condition these days thanks to Zack Trueblood, until at last they were arrowing across Kilgore land.

The truck strained into a gentle climb as the rock-strewn landscape grew higher, drier. This hilly land was fit for little but ranching. Its winter coat ran from tan to faded gray-green broken only by dark lines of trees along the creeks and down in the riverbed.

Finally the Kilgore ranch house appeared in the distance, a limestone-pillared three-story that stood out like a timeless fortress. Smoke curled from tall chimneys at either end of a steep-pitched red tile roof. A small collection of low stone buildings huddled behind.

Justin had converted his family’s historic ranch house into communal living quarters and offices for the Light at Five Points. Frankie was astonished at the changes in the place.

The undocumented aliens that took shelter there had restored most of the stonework, cleared a tremendous amount of cedar and erected sturdy modern fencing in place of the crumbling split rail. Her sister Markie had started teaching English classes right after Christmas. The place already felt settled, productive, and Frankie was impressed.

Yolonda, however, was not. She folded her skinny arms across her chest and glared at the back of Luke’s head.

Luke ignored her, braked the truck and said, “Vamos.”

They got out and the smell of cedar smoke hanging in the cold air made Frankie nostalgic. Nothing was quite as magical as a clear Hill Country morning out on a ranch.

Markie stepped out onto the porch, looking stylish at eight in the morning as only Markie could, wearing tall boots, snug jeans, a black turtleneck and a red boiled-wool vest. The sisters shared a similar brunette prettiness, but Markie wore her shiny dark hair in a more casual style than Frankie’s classic pageboy.

Frankie could see that marriage agreed with her little sister. Her alabaster complexion was glowing and her smile was huge. A young Hispanic woman—very pregnant, Frankie noted with a familiar pang of envy—accompanied her.

They mounted the steps, where the sisters exchanged a quick hug and Frankie did the introductions.

“What brings you here, Mr. Driscoll?” Markie eyed Luke. She sneaked Frankie a sly little glance that said, Wow.

Luke was impressive, Frankie thought. And married.

She felt her cheeks heating again and wished Markie would mind her own beeswax. But that was not the McBride sisters’ way.

“I’ve come back to continue my investigation.” Driscoll cleared his throat and looked at Yolonda, who was starting to fidget nervously. “And I wonder if you’ve heard anything from Juan and Julio Morales.”

The pregnant girl gasped and covered her lips with shaky fingers.

“No. Nothing. But we’d sure like to. Julio is the father of Aurelia’s baby.” Markie then spoke in Spanish to the pregnant girl, who tried to spirit the new girl off into the house like a hen taking a chick under wing.

But Yolonda balked. She carefully removed the denim jacket, with its warm sheepskin lining, and gave it up to its owner. “Gracias,” she said with sad eyes.

“No hay de qué,” Luke said quietly.

“She’s going to be a handful,” Luke explained when the girls were gone. “Doesn’t want to be here. But I need her kept safe.”

Markie smiled. “We’re used to handling scared teenagers. There’s always a lot of mistrust at first. Aurelia will help her adjust.”

“She’s more scared than most. She witnessed the thing with the Morales’ sister.”

Markie’s bright smile vanished. “We heard about that. You think that’s related to your investigation then?”

“Absolutely.”

Frankie felt a mild irritation that her sister knew more than she did, and that Driscoll seemed more forthcoming with Markie.

Markie shook her head. “Danny’s murder. Whatever my father-in-law is covering up. The Morales brothers. Now this trouble on the border. What a mess.”

“Yes, ma’am. A mess that needs addressing.” Then to Frankie’s surprise, the laconic Driscoll launched into a kind of speech.

“This sort of thing is bad for relations. I’ve been deep into Mexico, even on down into Central America, and it’s my opinion that we’d better learn to get along with these people. We could easily take U.S. prosperity all the way into Honduras. And if we don’t let them work for us and improve themselves, everything will end up being made in China.”

“You sound like my husband.” Markie’s smile returned, broader and brighter. “Justin said he liked you. Y’all want to come inside? Aurelia just made fresh coffee.”

Frankie was tempted to sit by the big window in the cool stone kitchen and sip Markie’s rich ranch house coffee while the sun rose higher over the hills.

But once again, Driscoll proved focused. He turned to Frankie. “We’d better get going.”

“To the caves?” Nosy Markie.

“Yes.” Frankie wished she hadn’t told Markie that part. She turned to go, hoping to avoid this topic. She knew her youngest sister had suspicions about that area ever since Congressman Kilgore had pulled a gun on her son inside one of the caverns. Old man Kilgore had claimed he mistook the boy for a trespasser, and the local law bought it, but Frankie sensed there was something bad, something unfinished, about the whole affair.

Markie grabbed Frankie’s arm. “What do you all expect to find in the caves?”

“Won’t know until we look.” Driscoll took command of Frankie’s arm and touched the brim of his Stetson, steering her out and dismissing Markie.

When the truck lurched to a halt under the rusting wrought-iron Kilgore ranch gates, Luke said, “Which way?”

Frankie looked up and down the narrow gravel road. “You want the scenic route?”

Driscoll inclined his head, and even with the brim of the Stetson and the reflective sunglasses shielding his eyes, Frankie could tell he was favoring her with a patient look. “I prefer the fast route,” he drawled.

“Left,” she said with a teensy nudge of disappointment. After years with a dour husband, Frankie was in no mood for a guy with no sense of humor. Luke Driscoll might be handsome as hell, but Frankie had a feeling he wasn’t exactly going to be bunches of fun.

CHAPTER THREE

AS LUKE DRISCOLL’S PICKUP bounced past her sister’s unoccupied farmhouse, up a winding gravel trail to the top of a hill, Frankie took the measure of the man driving. He had a sturdy build. Meaty forearms, a broad back. He sat squarely in the seat on muscular shanks, with his long legs canted wide.

She couldn’t help making an unkind comparison to her slight-bodied husband. Kyle was forever slumped—in the seat of his Mercedes, in front of his computer, on the soft leather sectional that dominated their den.

Mentally waving away thoughts of the pusillanimous Kyle, she wondered how old Luke Driscoll was. Forty? Forty-five? Again, her eyes were drawn to the gold band that appeared to have hugged that finger for many a year. Stop salivating over him, Ms. Separated-and-Rejected-Middle-Aged-Wife. This man, this very sexy man sitting next to you is obviously married. Why did she have to keep reminding herself?

She turned her face to the window, determined to think about something else. But it was no good. The man was an absolute eye magnet. She gave him another covert look. Immediately he said, “What?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

More details of his person registered. Tan complexion. Hawkish nose. Square jaw. Threads of gray in the thick dark hair at his temples.

He had a smattering of gray, also, in the trim goatee that accented his face. It seemed incongruous, a Ranger with a goatee…and the rest growing out in a five o’clock shadow. She supposed traveling from the border all night explained his unshaven face. He didn’t seem the least bit tired, though. On the contrary. He seemed alert, intent on his purpose.

“You drove all night?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face as if she’d reminded him how fatigued he was. “The illegals walk it all the time. At least we had Old Bossie, here.”

His pickup was not old. Texans loved to give their trucks pet names, even if said truck had a leather interior and XM stereo.

“Why this urgency to see the caves?”

He frowned at her. “I’m under a little time pressure. Remember how I said Yolonda was a witness to a murder and a rape?”

“A rape?” Frankie’s eyes widened.

The look he gave her was sympathetic. “She hid in the mesquite bushes while some very dangerous men raped and killed her friend Maria Morales.”

Frankie covered her mouth. “That poor child.” Then she dropped her hand. “Morales? Like the brothers who were seen out by my brother-in-law’s barn?” Frankie’s voice grew bright with realization. “The ones who ran away and hid—”

“—after the fire that killed your brother-in-law. That is why this has become part of my investigation.”

Robbie had said this Luke Driscoll was very thorough, very sharp, when she’d contacted him for help in uncovering the truth about Danny’s murder. Frankie checked him out again.

And again without looking at her, he said, “What?”

“Do you always snap at people when you imagine they’re looking at you?”

“Did I imagine it?” He gave her a sidelong glance.

No, he hadn’t. He had some kind of radar. Frankie felt herself blushing again so she steered back to the subject at hand. “So this girl, who was…raped,” she could hardly utter the word, “by this guy—”

“Guys.”

“Oh, dear,” Frankie whispered. “More than one?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point. It was meant to look like the motive was sexual assault, but I don’t think that’s the way of it.”

“Lord. Why would someone rape an innocent girl to cover up something else? I mean, how could anything be worse?”

“That’s what her brothers are supposed to think. The real reason that the Coyotes killed the girl was to draw her brothers out of hiding.”

“Coyotes?”

“Border runners. Smugglers. They take the money of poor, desperate people in exchange for passage into the States. Besides smuggling human beings, they’re often involved in other criminal activity.”

“Oh,” Frankie said. She’d heard of such things, but they never touched a doctor’s wife in her secure world.

“I’d like to see what’s in these caves before these Coyotes beat me to it. If they haven’t already. Maria Morales was wearing a vest that had a special pattern woven into it. The men who killed her kept that vest. I’m thinking it’s a map of sorts.”

“You mean to the caves?”

He shrugged. “I expect the Morales boys could tell us. Yolonda claims it was an ancient Mayan pattern.”

“What kind of pattern?”

“Something worth killing for. Do we turn off here?” Driscoll was slowing the truck.

“Yes. Then, you remember, we’ll have to proceed on foot.”

“I don’t remember much besides getting shot at,” Driscoll said as he strong-armed the truck down the rutted drive of the Tellchick farm.

Frankie’s cheeks flushed again as she recalled the day they’d first met. Then she smiled slyly, thinking how her aim had been dang good. “I suppose I could have let the snake get you.”

The whine of the truck engine continued for some seconds before he deadpanned, “But then…what would you be staring at now?” He kept his gaze trained out the windshield.

“Aren’t you the humble one,” Frankie scoffed, though her cheeks were so hot now she thought she might have to roll down the window. A grin formed above the goatee. Maybe this Luke guy wasn’t so grim after all.

“Park up there,” Frankie pointed to an ancient limestone structure squatting among cedars and low live oaks.

“Built by the original Kilgore settlers,” Frankie explained as the pickup came to a stop next to the abandoned one-room dwelling. “Way back in the nineteenth century.”

“I love old places like this.” Driscoll jerked on the parking brake.

He got out and marched around the perimeter of the building. Not sure what else to do, Frankie followed.

“Looks like someone’s been here more recently than the nineteenth century.” He pointed to the charred remains of a fire ring.

“My sister had some workers staying out here for a while,” Frankie explained as they walked toward the ashes.

“Mexicans?”

“Yes. Guys from the Light at Five Points, actually.”

Luke sauntered to the edge of the rise and Frankie followed. “The caves are under those mounds.” She pointed.

Below them a shadowed valley spread between banks of hills. The only road into the area stuck out like a winding gray ribbon. In the distance their goal—mounds of yellowish native limestone—shone like a bald pate in the gray-green landscape.

“How far is that from up here?” He nodded at the mounds.

“Half a mile by the road, but it’s been closed off with barbed wire and a padlocked ranch gate.”

“Trueblood’s doing?”

“No. Kilgore’s.”

“Ah. The congressman again.” Luke frowned. “I thought Trueblood owned this farm now.”

“He cut some kind of deal with Kilgore and agreed to steer clear of the caves. But we can circle around and come up along the river.” She pointed at the channel of the Blue River below. “When we were kids, my sisters and I came up that way a couple of times, exploring. There’s a shaft that drops pretty much straight down. We were forbidden to go there, but we did. Robbie didn’t allow her kids out this way, either. But she believes Danny had discovered another entrance the night he came upon the Mexicans.”

“Did he tell her where it was?”

“No. He never got the chance.”

They stared out at the valley for a moment, silenced by the memory of the fire and the way Danny Tellchick had died.

“You said the caves had some connection to my brother-in-law’s death.” Frankie’s voice became sorrowful as she surveyed the countryside that spread below the little hill. “I guess you were right.”

“Coyotes hired old man Mestor to set both fires. But knowing who wanted Danny Tellchick dead doesn’t tell us why they wanted him dead. It’s my job to find out why. Something worth killing for has got to be a pretty big why.”

“Unfortunately, Danny never told my sister what he saw.”

“My guess is he told somebody. And got killed for his trouble.”

Frankie cocked her head at him. “This is trespassing, you know. On the land of one of the meanest men in Texas.”

“Seems minor compared to murder.” Luke’s gaze was level.

“We should start by looking at that main shaft. We can make it on foot if we go down that slope.” Frankie pointed. “But it’s pretty steep.”

His gaze slid to her feet. “Can you make it in those things?”

Frankie looked down at the suede ballet flats she’d worn to work that morning. Their little accent bows looked ridiculous out here in this rocky countryside. Too late, she realized she should have gone by the house for her boots. “I’ll be okay.”

But still he went ahead of her, blazing the way. And still he looked back, braced his feet as if to catch her should she fall, and when she almost did, slipping on some mud, he grasped her hand and anchored his other hand firmly at her waist.

“Easy,” he said, as if she were a skittish horse.

“I’m fine,” she said. But she let him take her hand. She entertained no prideful notions that she didn’t need his help. The soles of her shoes were dance-floor slick and found little purchase on the rocky hillside. His grip felt warm and firm. Natural. Confident. And something else that Frankie couldn’t put a word on.

When they came to a sandstone wash that snaked down toward the river, he planted a palm on her back as he guided her across teetering slabs of rock.

His touch was as gentle and solicitous as his earlier one had been, but now something more seemed to radiate through his warm palm, something decidedly possessive, even sexual. She couldn’t remember Kyle’s hands ever having this effect on her.

A sudden thought spoiled her mood. Today was her birthday. Here she was, turning forty, and the simple touch of a man was giving her ideas that threw her into a little tizzy. Pathetic.

“Here. Let me help you down,” he said as he stepped onto a flat rock at the river’s edge. When he turned to offer his hand up, he must have seen the foolish, pesky tears that had welled up in her eyes, because his expression became concerned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as she stepped down level with him.

“Nothing.” Frankie shook her head and turned her face away. “It’s silly.” But she was forced to swipe at a tear.

“Are you frightened or something? We can go back. Tell me.”

“No. I’m fine. I just…I remembered something.”

He removed his reflective sunglasses, and in his dark eyes his concern was plain to see. His were gorgeous eyes. A smooth whiskey-brown. Very compassionate. Though right now he was also looking at her with a certain wariness. Little wonder. She was acting positively unstable. “Are you still thinking about your brother-in-law?”

“I should be.” Frankie sniffed, which only caused the tears to run. “But no. That’s not it.”

He looked around at the river foliage, up at the sky. “Look, Mrs. Hostler—”

“Frankie.”

“Right. Frankie.” He paused. “Just tell me what is wrong.”

Frankie decided he definitely wasn’t the most patient man. “If you must know,” she sniffed defensively, “I was thinking about the fact that today is my birthday.”

His head jutted forward and those heavenly brown eyes bugged a bit, as if he was staring at a crazy woman. “Happy birthday?”

“There’s nothing happy about it, if you must know. I’m turning forty and my life is falling apart.” She swiped at another runaway tear. “Oh, for crying out loud. This is ridiculous.”

He pushed the Stetson up on his head and scratched at his hair before resettling the hat. Before he spoke again he looked around at the rocks and trees as if they held a way out. Then the expression in those brown eyes turned tender. “You wanna just tell me exactly what made you start crying?”

Boy, she so did not want to tell him any such thing. How would that sound? The way you touched me just now reminded me of how deprived and lonely I’ve been. For a long time. Lovely. And he a married man. The thought of that ring on his finger dried up her tears, but quick.

“It’s nothing,” she lied, dismissing the most cataclysmic event that had ever happened in her life, the signing of her divorce papers on her fortieth birthday. “I’m having some marital difficulties, that’s all…and…and this particular spot on the river reminds me of my estranged husband.” An even bigger lie. She and Kyle had never even been out here. He despised the farm.

“Estranged?”

“We’re getting divorced,” Frankie admitted quietly. “I signed the p—” Frankie bit her lip, on the verge of blubbering again. When she regained her composure, she went on. “The papers. I signed them. Yesterday.”

“I see.” He paused, did that thing where he canted his hat back and mussed his hair again. “Well. I’ve never been divorced myself.” He paused again. “But I hear it’s tough.”

Frankie nodded tightly, couldn’t bring herself to speak. And she couldn’t look at him, either.

“So.” He sounded uncomfortable now. “You okay to go on, then?”

Frankie nodded again. “This way.”

Determined to keep her cool, she watched her own footing from then on. Following along the riverbank would not be as much of a physical challenge as climbing down the hill, and she preferred Luke Driscoll at her back, where he couldn’t read the emotions on her face.

But when she came up over the rise above the riverbank her face got plenty emotional. She whirled on Luke, flapping her hands in warning before she hit the ground.

As she crouched down in the brush he crept up behind her, peering over her shoulder. “Whoa now,” he growled. “Here’s a bit of luck.”

In the distance where the formations gave way to the sinkhole that led into the underground caverns, three large SUVs sat parked in a triangle. Half a dozen swarthy young men, wearing leather jackets over athletic warm-ups, stood talking inside the triangle. Talking rather heatedly. As they gestured, Frankie caught glints of sun reflecting off gold chains at their necks and diamonds in their earlobes.

“Luck?” Frankie said. “Those guys look…bad.”

“Izek Texcoyo is bad all right. These are not your run-of-the-mill trespassers.” Luke whispered this near her ear as he dug something out of his pocket. He didn’t seem all that shook up.

“Who?”

“That one.” He aimed two fingers at a heavyset guy. “I’ve, uh, seen his picture. A border guard gave it to me.”

“Is he connected to—” Frankie’s throat closed on the word “—with—the murder?” She felt compelled to whisper, too, although the Coyotes were too far away to hear.

“He is if Yolonda will talk. The others are Coyotes, too,” he added.

“How do you know?” Frankie whispered.

“The clothes, haircuts, the vehicles. Expensive. Brand-new. Coyotes’ll buy cars like that,” he nodded his head toward the Hummer, the Expedition, “or flat out steal them and then discard them like toys.”

“My God.” Frankie’s voice was hushed as she moved closer to his shoulder. “They make that much money?”

“A killing, you might say.” His voice had a bitter edge.

She turned her head to check his profile. The little she could see of his eyes behind his sunglasses looked grim as he looked down, working at something in his hand.

To her astonishment, he had withdrawn a device that looked like a Palm Pilot, only this had an antenna. He aimed it at the men.

She looked over his shoulder at the screen as he swiveled slightly to get the vehicles and dark figures in line with a distinctive rock formation. “Nice toy,” she said right by his ear. “A BlackBerry?”

“Treo. Does more.” Now he was touching the screen with a tiny wand. “Okay. Sent. Let’s go.” He hooked a hand around her arm and tugged her backward with him. But immediately his grip tightened on her arm as he stared in the direction of the men. He raised a hand to hush her.

The men were shouting now, in Spanish—Greek to Frankie. The fat one had turned around, waving an automatic weapon.

“By God, Yolonda better connect the dots to that one,” Luke vowed as he quickly snapped some more pictures. The shouting below grew more heated. “Let’s go.” He pocketed the Treo.

“Don’t you want to wait and see what they’re going to do?”

“No.” He tugged on her wrist.

But as they crawled away, echoing off the rock formations came the unmistakable popping sound of gunshots.

Luke threw Frankie to the ground and covered her with his body.

Terrified, Frankie smashed her cheek against the gritty earth. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Luke raising his head. “What happened?” She found her voice reduced to a squeak.

“Man down,” he informed her in a low growl.

More shouting caused Luke’s head to slam down beside Frankie’s. His hat was knocked askew and his eyes looked wild behind his sunglasses. “Musta spotted my hat.” His breathing was ragged next to her ear. Beyond the rise the shouting in Spanish grew closer.

Frankie’s breath caught in her chest. She could barely get her words out. “Are th-they coming?”

The shouting intensified on the other side of the ridge, unmistakably closer. Luke jerked Frankie to her feet and pulled her along, hurtling down the bank to the river.

They splashed across at a narrow place and scrambled on hands and knees back up a sandstone wash with Luke hauling her along like a rag doll.

“Head for the truck.” He pushed her into the cover of trees as gunfire rang out behind them. Frankie was astonished but relieved to see him pull a gun from the back of his belt and return fire.