Lone Star Diary. Darlene Graham

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.