Four Men and a Texas Lie

Chapter 1 The Gate Is Open The pickup came through the gate fast enough to make Sutton brake. Gravel snapped against her door. She caught a dark hood, a windshield flashing white in the afternoon sun, then the driver's window as the truck passed her. Too heavily tinted to see through. “Nice to see you, too.” By the time she checked her mirror, it was turning onto the county road. No ranch name on the door. The plate was filmed with pale dust. The gate stood open between its limestone posts. LAS ESPINAS ran across the iron arch overhead, the letters her father had ordered big enough to read from the road. Beyond it, the drive curved into mesquite. Everett Vale hadn't tolerated an open gate. People might forget birthdays, anniversaries, even their manners, but leaving his property unsecured had always earned a lecture. Well. He wasn't here to give one now. Sutton pulled forward and stopped beneath the arch. She lowered her window. Warm air carried the damp, mineral smell of the ditch, where last night's rain had collected beneath a mat of grass. A mockingbird complained from a fence post. Eight years, and she still recognized that bend in the wire. She took a photograph of the gate, then drove on. The road was mostly dry. Caliche dust lifted behind her, and prickly pear crowded the fence where someone needed to clear it back. Farther in, cattle stood beneath a patch of mesquite, tails flicking. One raised its head as she passed, chewing with the mild disapproval she remembered from nearly everything that lived here. She'd bought a return ticket for Sunday. There would be meetings, signatures, whatever sorting couldn't be handed to someone else. Then she would leave the ranch with people who wanted eighteen thousand acres badly enough to pay for them. Her father had spent his life making sure she understood what Las Espinas was worth. He'd never liked her asking what it cost. The house appeared beyond the last bend, broad and low beneath a standing-seam roof. The porch screens had been replaced. The shutters were still the same faded blue. Near the steps, her mother's concrete planter sat empty except for a volunteer sprig of grass. Sutton parked beside a white ranch truck and cut the engine. Her overnight bag lay on the passenger seat. She left it there. Taking it inside felt like agreeing to something. The porch boards were warm through the soles of her boots. At the front door, she found the key Mara had mailed her and fitted it into the lock. Before she turned it, the door opened. Beckett Shaw stood on the other side. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to the key, then returned to her face. “Sutton.” She had prepared for rooms full of her father's belongings. She had prepared for sympathy from people who hadn't spoken to her in years. She hadn't prepared for Beckett with his sleeves rolled up. The boyish edges were gone from his face, though there hadn't been many to begin with. Sun had deepened the color of his skin. A pale line interrupted one eyebrow. His shirt was faded at the shoulders and pulled across a chest she resented noticing. He looked at her for long enough that she wanted to check whether something was wrong with her face. Then he said, “I thought you were coming tomorrow.” “Clearly I should have made an appointment.” “That isn't what I meant.” “Are you going to let me in?” He moved aside. She passed close enough to smell clean sweat and laundry soap. Her shoulder nearly brushed his chest. Nearly was apparently sufficient; her body responded with an unwelcome little tightening low in her stomach. She was twenty-nine years old. She ought to have outgrown that by now. The front hall smelled of furniture polish. Her mother's shallow ceramic bowl still sat on the entry table, though it now held keys and a folded receipt. Sutton resisted the impulse to straighten it. Behind her, Beckett shut the door. “Did you let somebody out?” she asked. “Out of where?” “The gate. Dark pickup. It nearly took my mirror off.” His expression changed. “When?” “Just now.” “Did you get a plate?” “No. Did you recognize the description?” “Could be several people.” “That helpful, huh?” He ignored the jab and took his phone from his pocket. “Was it coming from the house road?” “I met it at the entrance. I couldn't see where it had come from.” He tapped a message, then looked up. “I'll check who was scheduled here.” “The gate was open.” “It shouldn't have been.” “Yes. I remember that rule.” Something shifted in his mouth, almost a smile. She hated that she recognized it. He put his phone away. “You want me to bring your bags in?” “No.” His eyes went toward the window, where her car was visible. “You staying somewhere else?” “I haven't decided.” “You drove all this way without deciding?” “I managed the drive without supervision, too.” Beckett rubbed a thumb along his jaw. He used to do that when she had irritated him past the point of a useful answer. Good. Some things had survived. “I'm not supervising you,” he said. “Then stop asking questions like you're taking attendance.” A ceiling fan turned in the room beyond the hall. She could hear its faint, regular click. The house was too cool after the porch, and suddenly she wanted to be outside again. Beckett noticed. Of course he noticed. “There's water in the kitchen.” “I know where the kitchen is.” “I figured you did.” Neither of them moved. She had once stood in this hall with a suitcase and waited for her father to come out of his office. Beckett had been there that day, too, leaning against the wall near the back door. He hadn't tried to take the suitcase from her. She remembered being grateful for that. She remembered wanting him to ask her to stay. “Well,” she said. “Congratulations on the promotion.” His brow creased. “Little late.” “I've been busy.” “So have we.” There it was. Small enough that he could pretend he hadn't meant it. Sutton lifted her chin. “If you've got something to say about me leaving, say it.” He studied her. “You still do that.” “Do what?” “Pick a fight before anybody can ask if you're all right.” The words landed cleanly. She wished he'd raised his voice. That would have given her something easier to answer. “I'm here to handle the estate, Beckett. You don't have to ask.” His jaw tightened. She looked away first and hated that, too. A pair of work gloves sat on the table beside the bowl. A mug rested on a coaster near the sitting-room doorway. The house hadn't been shut up waiting for her. Someone was living around the space her father had left. “Do you live here?” “West wing.” He watched her take that in. “There's a separate entrance. You won't have to step over me to get to the bathroom.” “I wasn't worried about the bathroom.” “What were you worried about?” She should have had an answer. Instead, she looked at the open collar of his shirt and the small movement of his throat when he swallowed. His eyes narrowed slightly. Wonderful. Now he knew. “Nothing,” she said. “It's a big house.” “Still is.” She tucked her keys into her purse. “I need to see the office.” Beckett glanced down the hall. Her father's door stood ajar. As a child, she'd learned to gauge his mood by that door. Open meant he might answer a question. Closed meant wait. The narrow gap meant he'd left briefly and expected everything to remain exactly as he'd arranged it. “Did you leave that open?” she asked. “No.” “Was anyone working in there?” “Not that I know of.” Sutton started down the hall. Beckett followed, his tread quiet on the runner. She reached for the door and pushed it inward with two fingers. The top drawer of Everett's desk stood open. So did the drawer beneath it. A file lay on the floor beside the chair, its papers spread across the boards. The brass letter opener had been knocked halfway off the blotter. Along the wall, a cabinet door hung open over shelves with gaps where folders should have been. Sutton stopped. For a moment she couldn't make the room fit what she remembered. Everett could leave a glass beside his chair all afternoon, but he wouldn't leave paperwork on the floor. He'd once made her sit through a lecture because she'd put a property map back in the wrong drawer. “Have you been sorting his things?” she asked. “No.” She turned to Beckett. “Anybody else?” He was looking past her into the room. “Not today.” “Not today isn't no.” “No one was supposed to be in here.” Her hand tightened on her purse strap. Through the window, afternoon light fell across the desk. His reading glasses lay beside the lamp. His chair was turned toward the wall. She'd imagined the chair would be the worst part. It was the glasses. He'd taken them off as if he intended to put them on again. She swallowed and looked at the cabinet instead. “Maybe someone needed a document.” “Maybe.” Neither of them sounded convinced. Sutton took out her phone and photographed the doorway, then the desk and the papers on the floor. Beckett's gaze returned to her. “Don't move anything yet.” “I wasn't going to.” “Okay.” She braced for another instruction. He gave none. On the credenza, Everett's silver pen set remained in its stand. A small bronze horse still occupied the shelf above the cabinet. Nothing she recognized as valuable seemed to be missing. “Someone left in a hurry,” she said. Beckett took his phone out again. “Let's step back.” She stayed at the threshold. “Do you think that truck was here?” “I don't know.” “You keep saying that.” “Because I don't.” His voice was quieter now. “I'd rather tell you that than make something up.” She looked at him. The last of the irritation had gone from his face. What remained made her feel less alone and more afraid at the same time. He held out his hand, palm up, between her and the room. An invitation, not a grip. “Come back into the hall, Sutton.” She might have done it if the light hadn't shifted. A cloud moved clear of the sun. Beyond the desk, the boards brightened, revealing a dark mark near the baseboard. “Wait.” She leaned forward without crossing the threshold and raised her phone, enlarging the view on the screen. Mud. A partial heel, then a longer print beside it. Another nearer the back of Everett's chair. Someone had stood behind the desk. “Beckett.” He followed her gaze. “Show me the bottom of your boot.” He glanced at her, then braced one hand on the hall wall and lifted his heel. She looked from his sole to the image on her screen. His boots had worn leather soles and a narrow rubber heel. The muddy prints behind the desk were wider, scored with deep zigzag tread. Sutton lowered the phone. Those boot prints weren't Beckett's.