A policeman was carefully picking it up, and she looked inside.
“Twenty dollars,” the policeman said. He shrugged. “Not much of a haul for two men’s lives.”
“Does it look like he was a pro?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Too sloppy. A witness who saw him kill the storekeeper said he was shaking all over, and the gun discharged accidentally while he was trying to get away.”
She was writing it all down. “Got a family?”
“Yeah. He’s the youngest of six kids. The older brother’s a drug dealer. The mother goes on the streets from time to time to add to her welfare check.” He smiled at Gaby. “Tough world for kids, isn’t it?”
“For some of them,” she agreed. She shouldered the camera and went back to Chief Jones, who’d just finished talking to the hostage. Gaby asked him the necessary questions, picked up Harrington, and drove back to the office in her white custom VW convertible.
“How come you rate a car this fancy?” Fred asked on the way.
She smiled. “I have rich relatives,” she said.
Well, it was the truth, in one respect. The McCaydes of Lassiter, Arizona, were rich. They weren’t exactly relatives, however.
Her eyes drifted to the traffic. Phoenix was a fascinating city, elegant for its spaciousness, with the surrounding huge, jagged peaks of the southernmost Rockies forming a protective barrier around it. The first time she’d seen the city, she had been fascinated by the sheer height and majesty of those mountains.
In fact, Arizona itself still fascinated her. It was a state like no other, its appearance first frightening and barren. But closer up, it had a staggering beauty. In its vastness, it offered serenity and promise. In its diversity of terrain and cultures, it offered a kind of harmony that was visually melodic. Gaby loved it all, from the wealth and prosperity and hustle of Phoenix, to the quiet desert peace of Casa Río, the twenty-odd-thousand-acre ranch owned by the McCaydes.
“Doesn’t one of your relatives have a construction company in Tucson?” Harrington broke into her thoughts. “McCayde—Bowie McCayde?”
Gaby tingled at the mention of his name. “He’s not a relative. His parents took me in when I was in my teens,” she corrected. “Yes, he inherited McCayde Construction from his late father.”
“There’s a ranch, too, isn’t there?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, there is,” she said, remembering with a smile. “Casa Río—River House. It dates to ten years after the Civil War.” She glanced at him. “You did know that most of southeastern Arizona was settled by people from the South—and that during the Civil War, a Confederate flag flew briefly over the city of Tucson?”
“You’re kidding.”
She laughed. “No, I’m not. It’s true. Bowie’s people came from southwest Georgia. The first settler was a Cliatt, who married a Mexican girl. There’s even a Papago in his lineage somewhere—excuse me, a Tohono O’odham,” she said, using the new name the Papago had adopted for themselves. The name Papago was actually a Zuñi word meaning “Bean People,” so the Papago changed it to words in their own language, which meant “People of the Desert.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Harrington murmured as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I think it’s pretty. Did you know that Apache is a Zuñi word for enemy? And that the word Navajo contains a ‘V,’ and that there is no ‘V’ in the Navajo language? Until recent times many scarcely knew of the word, in fact...”
“Stop!” Harrington wailed. “I don’t want to learn everything about the Southwest in one lesson.”
“I love it,” she sighed. “I love the people and the languages and the history.” Her dark olive eyes grew dreamy. “I wish I’d been born here.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
It was just a casual question, and she’d brought it on herself, but she quickly changed the subject. “I wonder what they’ll do to Wilson?”
He glared at her, as she’d known he would. “I hope they hang him from the nearest tree. The fool!”
She smiled to herself. “Maybe they will,” she mused.
Her mind wandered as she drove. The rain reminded her so well of a time in her past—the first time she’d seen Casa Río. It was the night she’d met Bowie.
Just thinking of him made her nervous. In a lot of ways, Bowie was her nemesis. He couldn’t be called a brother because she’d never been officially adopted by the McCaydes. She was a stray they’d taken in and assumed responsibility for, but only as a ward. She hadn’t wanted them to adopt her, because then they might probe into her past. But she’d covered herself by giving a very plausible story about having moved every other week with her father, and having no permanent address. That much was almost true.
Bowie was twenty-seven years old the night she showed up at Casa Río in the rain. She had caught first sight of him in the barn, where she was huddled and shivering against the faint evening chill of May.
His sheer size had been overpowering. He was a big, rugged-looking blond man with a physique that any movie cowboy would have envied. He was the head of a growing construction company, and over the years, he’d spent a good deal of his time at building sites, pitching in when deadlines were threatening. That explained the muscular physique, but not the brooding look he wore much of the time. Later, Gaby would learn that he didn’t smile very often. She’d learn, too, that his extraordinary good looks were deceptive. He wasn’t a womanizer, and if he had affairs, they were so discreet as to be almost unnoticed. He was a quiet, introspective man who liked Bach, old war movies, and more than anything else, the land upon which Casa Río sat. Bowie was a preservationist, a conservationist. That, in a builder, was something of an irony, but then, Bowie was full of contradictions. Gaby knew him no better now than she had that first night. He was rarely ever home when she visited his mother, Aggie—it was almost as if he purposefully avoided her.
That long-ago rainy night, he’d been in evening clothes. Gaby’s frightened eyes had followed him as he stared into a stall and rubbed the velvet nose of the big Belgian horse that occupied it. He turned on the light, and she could see that his blond hair was very thick and straight, conventionally cut with a side part, and neatly combed, despite the hour. His profile had been utterly perfect; a strong, very handsome, very definite face that probably drew women like honey drew butterflies. He had a straight nose and a square jaw, and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. His mouth had a chiseled look, and there was something faintly sensuous about it. Gaby tried not to notice sensuality—she was afraid of men.
But masculine perfection like Bowie’s was hard to ignore. She watched him as she might have watched a sunset, awed by its impact. The black suit he’d been wearing clung with a tailored faultlessness to his powerful body, emphasizing his broad chest, the length of his muscular legs, the narrowness of his hips, the width of his shoulders. He bent his head to light a cigarette, and she saw the faint orange flair of the match turn his tanned face just briefly to bronze.
She must have accidentally moved and made noise, because all of a sudden he whirled toward her with an economy of movement. His eyes narrowed.
“Who the hell is that?” he asked. His voice was deep, curt, without an accent, and yet there was something faintly drawling about it.
She hesitated, but when he started toward the empty stall where she was huddled in fresh hay, she stood up and moved out into the aisle, terrified of being hemmed in.
“I’m