Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

and since I don’t have any money in the budget for overtime, I guess I’m stuck with the job.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Your grandmother is a very influential person in this county. Purely a career enhancement move on my part.” He smiled and pushed the recliner back one notch.

“You can’t spend the night here.”

“She said I could.”

“Well, I say you can’t.”

He locked his hands behind his head and crossed his legs. “She outranks you.” His expression was as cocky as his position.

“Don’t you own a pair of socks?” I snapped, mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“What?” He looked down at his topsiders, perplexed.

I glared, not about to admit that I was actually relieved someone was staying the night with me. The sight of his pistol lying on the end table next to him gave me as close to a feeling of security as I was going to have tonight.

“You can use the quilt on the sofa if you need it.” I laid the remote control on the table next to him. “Where’s my gun?”

“You won’t need it while I’m here.” He grabbed the controller, turned on the TV and started cruising the stations.

“It’s my gun. I want it back.”

“You’ll get it back tomorrow,” he said, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

“I want it now.”

“I said no. Now go to bed.” He settled on the eleven o‘clock news and pushed the recliner back as far as it would go.

“Get out of that chair.”

“I told you, I’m not leaving.”

“I’m not telling you to leave. I’m telling you to get out of that chair.” His head snapped up.

“Okay, no problem,” he said in the pacifying tone a person might use on a nervous horse. In seconds, he was out of the chair, sitting on the sofa. “Is here all right?”

“Fine.” I went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

A few seconds later, he knocked. “Don’t lock it.” His voice was muffled by the thickness of the door.

I swung it open. “What did you say?”

“Don’t lock this door. I might need to get in there quickly.”

Another time, that remark might have made me laugh, but I was too close to the edge to find any humor in it. “Do you think he’ll come back?” My voice cracked, but I was beyond caring.

“Probably not. He was either a very poor shot or he was only trying to scare you. With the caliber of gun he was using, my guess is the latter.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his sweatshirt; his eyes drew tight with fatigue. “I’m not done talking with you. We’re going to continue our conversation first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I know.” Right then, I didn’t care. Tomorrow was a lifetime away. I was still wondering how I was going to make it through tonight.

He started to turn away, then stopped and turned back, his face apologetic. “Look, about the chair.”

I held up my hand. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just that ...”

“I get it, Benni.” His voice was strained. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

Though I took a hot shower to relax, my sleep was fitful all night. Even Ortiz’s presence in the house failed to lessen the apprehension that held me tight as a wrestler’s grip. More than once I woke suddenly, my throat tight, my face hot from the adrenaline coursing through my body.

I lay there and thought about the last three months, how different living in town was, how I missed the sounds and the odors of ranch life: the groaning of cattle echoing through the gullies on a clear night, the smooth feel of worn leather reins, horses whinnying to be fed at the end of the day, the tart, earthy smell animals bring to your life.

At one point, in a sort of panic, I pulled the embroidered case off Jack’s pillow and rubbed my face where he once laid his head, trying to find his scent. But it had been too long; only my smell was there. I held the pillow to my face, stifling my sobs, wishing suddenly I were alone, yet glad I wasn’t.

I woke for the last time at five A.M. and read the ceiling for an hour, worrying about what Ortiz was going to ask me and how much I should tell him. Now that there was a link to Jack’s accident, I wanted to get to this Suzanne Hart before the police. If they talked to her first, it would get all tangled up in legalities and I’d never find out if she knew anything about the night Jack was killed.

Since sleep was obviously out of the question, I crawled out of bed, put on a pair of thick gray sweats and slunk down the hallway into the kitchen. I couldn’t see Ortiz, so I assumed he was stretched out on the sofa asleep.

The kitchen was a mess as usual. I hadn’t washed dishes in a week, and though I didn’t honestly care about impressing Ortiz with my housekeeping abilities, I was vain enough not to want anyone to see what a closet slob I had become.

I turned the hot water on to a quiet trickle and pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I was on my second load of glasses, trying to shove the dishrag down into a thin, elegant iced tea glass given to me by Elvia, when it broke, slicing deep into the palm of my right hand. Forgetting I wasn’t alone, I let out a yelp. Tears stung my eyes as I held my hand under the running water, washing the soap out of my wound.

“Cut yourself?” Ortiz whispered about three inches from my ear, causing me to jump.

“For crying out loud, why don’t you cough or something before you sneak up on someone?” I grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it around my hand.

“And take away my only advantage?” he asked. “Let me see.” He unwrapped the towel and pried at the