Texas Midnight. Caroline Burnes

groaned as she thought of the probability that someone at the home for abused women would hear of her threatening an author with a knife. In public. It had been a very emotional display, and could carry a hefty price.

      Calamity nickered softly, as if to say that going home was a good idea. Anna went to the horse and stroked her neck. It was early April, but the setting sun had taken all of the spring warmth. She’d need her bedroll tonight.

      She heated a can of stew on the fire and tossed dry sticks in the low flames. No matter what she did to keep busy, her mind kept going back to Jeremy Masterson. He was more handsome in person than his photo on his book jacket. She could still hear his voice, a real Texas drawl with the prerequisite “ma’am” when he addressed her.

      If only he hadn’t written those things about her grandfather. Since he was writing fiction, why hadn’t he made up a name for the Apache in the book? Everyone else did it. And most didn’t bother to do a bit of research about how things really were. No, it was easier to accept the Hollywood version of the past than to struggle with the issues of right and wrong that were on both sides of the Native American question.

      In the distance a coyote howled, and Anna listened to the mournful song. Soon there would be so many people living in Texas that there would be no room for the coyote. Like the bear and panther and wolf, he would disappear. Like the red man.

      “The past is over and the future can’t be counted on,” she told herself. She tossed the remains of the coffee in the fire and pulled her blankets over her as she settled on the ground, using her saddle for a pillow.

      As a little girl she’d often camped with her grandfather. He’d survived the trial in which he was accused of killing a dozen white settlers. He was a very old man, and Anna had loved to sleep under the stars and listen to his stories. He’d told her about the wiles of the coyote and the bravery of the wolf. And the wisdom of the buffalo that had once roamed free through vast stretches of long grass.

      Thunder Horse had been over one hundred when he died on a reservation. But he was not buried there. His ashes were scattered in the very hills where she now camped. Tomorrow, before she went home, she would visit the sacred place where she’d set him free.

      The coyote seemed to cry agreement with her plan, and Anna closed her eyes, determined to sleep. But no matter how she tried to relax, she could not. She wasn’t satisfied with her meeting with Jeremy Masterson. He hadn’t believed her. She’d come all this way to straighten him out—and all she’d done was amuse him.

      She sat up. She knew where he lived. She’d made it a point to find out. It wouldn’t take long to drive there. And he had offered to talk with her. Maybe if she didn’t create a public scene, he might actually listen to what she had to say. And she might get her knife back.

      She knew she was fooling herself. There hadn’t been an inch of bend in the man in the bookstore. Not an inch. But she’d driven a long way, and she wasn’t going home until she tried again.

      Throwing off the blankets, she kicked the fire out and checked the hobbles on the horses. They would be fine for a while.

      “I must be crazy,” she said aloud.

      Even as she talked, she unhitched the horse trailer, got in her truck and slowly headed down the rock-strewn path toward the main road. Jeremy lived out near a small community called Hunt. It was only a twenty-minute drive. She could get there, have her say and get back to her horses in an hour.

      The clock on the dash showed midnight when she pulled off the main road and down the narrow lane that led to Jeremy’s home. The grounds, or what she could see of them in the beams of her truck lights, were well tended. The house, when she finally got to it, was modest and cheerful. There were even flowers blooming in the beds. She wondered if he was a secret gardener or if he paid to have the work done.

      As she neared the door, which was well lighted, she noticed an herb patch. She didn’t try to stop her smile. This was how she’d imagined Jeremy would live. Bending down, she pinched a few plants and identified basil, lemon dill and mint. She put the herbs in her pocket for luck.

      Her knock was bold, and yet it brought no response. She knocked again. The radio was playing inside, and when she waited several minutes and no one came to the door, she moved around to look in an open window. She wasn’t a Peeping Tom, but she couldn’t resist. It would be a thrill to catch a glimpse of him at work—even if he was no longer her favorite author.

      A light burned in what appeared to be a study. A big desk chair faced a computer station against the far wall, where a screen of text glowed brightly. Otherwise, the room looked empty.

      As her eyes better adjusted to the dim light of the room, she made out a dark shape on the floor. Even as her eyes registered the outline of a body, her brain tried to resist it. Jeremy Masterson wouldn’t sleep on the bare floor. Her impulse was to run—fast. But she couldn’t. What if Jeremy was injured? Had suffered a heart attack?

      “Hey!” Anna called louder. “Mr. Masterson!” She beat on the window frame, hard.

      Jeremy didn’t budge.

      Anna reached into her pocket, pulled out her pocketknife and cut the screen. The sharp knife zipped through it, and in a matter of seconds there was a hole wide enough for her to slip through.

      She jumped to the window ledge and slid through to the floor. Hurrying, she rushed to the body, unaware of the blood until she stepped in it. She knew then she’d made a terrible mistake.

      Gently turning the body, she saw first the multiple stab wounds to the chest— Suddenly she realized that the dead man was a stranger. It was not Jeremy Masterson, but someone she’d never seen. There was no help for him. His body was already stiffening with rigor mortis.

      The horror of what she saw numbed her. Anna forced herself to remain still, to breathe, to think. Her grandfather had been a man of rigid control. He’d taught her the danger of emotionalism and fear, and Anna reached deep inside herself, seeking that discipline.

      Body trembling, she slowly stood and tried to determine what had happened. A stack of manuscript pages sat on the desk, and by them, the computer screen glowed a vivid blue. The full danger and brutality of the scene hit her hard. She couldn’t save the dead man, and the worst thing that could happen would be for her to be found with the body.

      She ran to the window and climbed back out, then sprinted across the lawn to her truck. As she drove away and pulled onto the main road, she looked around to make sure no one witnessed her exit from the murder scene.

      Chapter Two

      In the full light of the Texas moon, the field of bluebells seemed dusted with silver. Jeremy put his arm around Gabriel. She’d been an enchanting date—she’d read all of his novels and had, twice, actually quoted from Blood on the Moon. Jeremy couldn’t help but be flattered by such attention from a lovely woman.

      “Penny for your thoughts,” Gabriel said, as if she knew he was thinking about her.

      “It’s so beautiful.” He pointed out across the meadow. His friends, Mike and Rachel Kettering, had turned an old homestead into a showplace. But then, Texas in the spring was hard to ugly up, he thought with a grin.

      “It is lovely. And in your books, you describe it just this way. I’ll bet you have a million fans writing you.” She gave him a teasing look. “And most of them women.”

      “Hardly that many,” Jeremy said, enjoying Gabriel’s undivided attention. Earlier, he’d left the book signing, Ellie’s demands that he head straight to the Kettering’s ranch still ringing in his ears. He’d made one personal detour, and had arrived in plenty of time to help, but as he’d suspected, the hosts had everything under control. He and Mike had spent the time before the party sipping bourbon and swapping yarns. Now he was feeling expansive and relaxed.

      “Do you have any really dedicated fans? I’ve often wondered what it would be like to get mail from absolute strangers.”

      “Some