Page 22 of One in a Million
“You heard?”
“Most of it. I’m a shameless eavesdropper.”
“What do you think of her claim that Roper’s sleeping with Lila?”
“If he is, it’s driven by his own ambition. Roper’s good at his job. He was loyal to Dad and he’s loyal to Lila—probably because of what he’s getting paid. But he’s one of the coldest men I’ve ever met. I sense that he’ll do anything to get ahead, even sleep with the boss.”
“And Lila?”
“I can’t believe she’d be that dumb. It’s not like her. But she’s only human. Dad could be an insensitive jerk, and Roper’s a hottie.”
“You sound sympathetic. I thought you disliked her.”
“I can’t stand her. But that doesn’t keep me from wanting to be like her sometimes. She’s one of the sharpest, strongest women I know, and I’ve worked in Hollywood. Maybe by the time I’m her age, I’ll have it all together. So far, I can’t say much for my track record.” She shrugged, gazing ahead at the road.
“Tell me what you know about Roper McKenna. Where’s his family from?”
“They live on the little ranch south of here—a rundown old place they bought when they moved from Colorado. Our cook, Mariah, calls them hillbillies and says they’re not our kind of people. But they’re rodeo folks. Roper doesn’t compete—I get the impression he may have done so years ago. But his four younger half siblings—three brothers and a sister—are rodeo superstars.”
“Oh—wait.” Something clicked for Sam. He remembered the magazine cover he’d seen on an airport newsstand and a glimpse of TV coverage from a recent Texas rodeo. Those four eager young faces—smiling, healthy, and handsome—were hard to forget. The girl was a dark-eyed, ebony-haired beauty. “They’re the McKennas, the ones on the news?”
“The same. They’re celebrities, at least here in Texas.”
“Will the family be coming to your father’s memorial? I wouldn’t mind meeting them.”
“Roper will be there because he worked for Dad and now Lila. But the family isn’t invited and probably wouldn’t come if they were. The father’s a disabled former bull rider, the mother one of those stalwart salt-of-the-earth women who probably home-delivered her babies, does her own housework, goes to church every Sunday, and never gets her nails done. I try not to judge, but like Mariah says, they’re good people, just not our kind.”
“Was there any conflict between your father and the McKennas? Land issues? Water rights? Animals?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but that would be a question for Roper. If he’s around, I’ll introduce you when we get back to the ranch.”
“Roper was the first one to get there after you found your father, right?”
“Right. He heard my scream, and he handled things. But that in itself means nothing.”
“So you think Roper could have killed Frank?”
“He had the strength, the know-how, the ambition, and as much reason as anybody. Dad was holding him back, not letting him compete while he was under contract.”
“And your neighbor on the far side?”
They passed the sign that marked the west border of the Culhane Ranch. The sun had climbed higher now, blasting heat through the open top of the Jeep. Sam, still at the wheel, was glancing around for a handle or lever that would free the canvas cover when a brown and white animal, the size of a leggy dog, streaked over the fence and into the road directly in front of the Jeep. Sam’s foot slammed the brake, but it was too late. Jasmine screamed as the vehicle struck the graceful creature with a jarring thud. It lay in the road in front of them, alive but with its slender neck bent at an ugly angle.
“No! No!” Jasmine flew out of the passenger seat and raced around the front of the Jeep to drop at the injured animal’s side. Climbing out, Sam could see it clearly for the first time. At the first flashing glimpse he’d thought it might be a whitetail deer. But it had taken the eight-foot fence as if it had wings. And it was no deer. Instead of antlers, its long, sharp, black horns jutted straight up. It had a black stripe along its body and an elegant little head which Jasmine cradled between her knees as she tried to comfort it.
Sam’s jaw dropped as he recognized it. It was a Thomson’s gazelle, an antelope native to the grassy savannahs of East Africa.
“Can’t we do something for it?” Jasmine’s eyes implored him.
“Its neck’s broken. We can’t save it, Jasmine,” Sam said. “But it’s somebody’s property. Let’s wait a few minutes and hope the owner shows—”
The rest of his words were lost in the roar of a battered-looking four-wheeler, bounding across the pasture toward them. As it came closer, he could see the man at the wheel.
He was middle-aged and blocky of build, dressed in khakis and a pith helmet such as a safari guide might wear in the bush. Behind the stylish aviator glasses, his unshaven face was fat and angry. Sam had long since schooled himself to withhold judgment, but here was a man who seemed to exude malice. Jasmine’s posture stiffened as he came closer. It appeared that she knew him.
Next to the fence, the four-wheeler pulled up and swung to the right, giving Sam a view of the logo on the armored side.
CHARLIE GRISHMAN