Sinclair Sisters: Desert Heat - Sinclair Sisters: Desert Heat Part 35
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Sinclair Sisters: Desert Heat Part 35

But Patience wasn't sure Hope had ever really gotten over Richard, and she didn't think she was going to get over Dallas anytime soon. They hung up the phone and Patience swallowed past the lump in her throat.

She was in love with Dallas Kingman. Still, not once had she considered returning to the life Dallas lived. It wasn't her life. It never would be.

A second sigh escaped. Determined to think of something else, Patience sat down at her computer, which rested on a small maple desk in the corner of the bedroom. Earlier, when she had checked her e-mail, she had discovered an interesting note from Constance Foster, her friend at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame.

Patience clicked on the e-mail from cowgirlone@Texas.net and reread the note.

I've got something for you. Call me as soon as you can.

Patience had immediately phoned, but Constance worked Monday through Friday and Patience didn't have her home number. She typed in a reply, hoping this was her home e-mail address and not her address at work, put in her Boston phone number, and clicked on Send. Three minutes later, the telephone rang.

"Patience?"

"Constance-I'm so glad you got my message."

"Sorry, I should have given you my home number."

"So, what did you find out?"

"I'm not exactly sure if this is connected to the murders you've been working on, but I really think it could be. I ran across an article in the Colorado Springs Gazette. In July of nineteen-eighteen, a cowgirl named Bea Crandall, a relay rider, claimed she was attacked by a man who had asked her out to supper after the rodeo."

"He tried to kill her?"

"That's what Bea said. Unfortunately for Purcell-that's the man's name, Barton Purcell-he picked on the wrong woman. Bea was carrying a little pocket pistol, a derringer of some kind. She shot the old boy and killed him right on the spot."

Patience's heart started thumping. "I can't believe it." Was it possible the man who attacked Bea Crandall was the same man who had killed Lucky Sims? "You say this happened in Colorado Springs?"

"That's right. Monday when I get to work, I'll scan in what I've got and attach it to an e-mail."

"That would be terrific, Connie. This is really exciting news. I think there's a very good chance it's connected to the other two murders."

"Do you think there's any way you'll be able to prove it?"

"I don't know. I'm certainly going to try." She hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. She wished Dallas were here so she could tell him what Connie had discovered and get any thoughts he might have. Since that wasn't going to happen, she opened her desk drawer, dragged out her file on Lucky Sims and Gracie McGuiness, and set to work.

Dallas was bronc riding again. He was calf roping, too, trying to get his winnings up before the slots were filled for the Finals, but doing a damned poor job. It was mid-September. He and Stormy had joined up again in Ellensburg, Washington, then traveled to the Puyallup show. But Stormy wasn't doing much winning, either.

Woman trouble does that to a man, Charlie had said.

This afternoon, they were competing in the Pendleton Roundup, a prior contract Charlie was able to fulfill, now that he was back to work.

Not that he seemed happy about it. Although he was as conscientious as always and the rodeo was going very well, most of the time he grumbled and growled and generally got on everyone's nerves. It was obvious he would rather be in Texas, back at the ranch with Annie.

Dallas had a feeling that once his uncle's commitments were fulfilled through the end of the year, he would probably sell the production company and get out of the rodeo business for good.

Charlie missed his wife. And Stormy was having his share of troubles as well. He had phoned Shari a couple of times, but she always kept the conversations brief. She had started back to school, was doing well in her classes. Once she had cried, Stormy said, and told him that she missed him. Then she wouldn't take his calls again for the rest of the week.

Stormy's mood was as black as Charlie's, and Dallas's was even worse. The one thing he had learned over the summer was how rare and precious real love was. If there was any way in hell he could make things work with Patience, he would have married her.

Or at least, he would have asked.

Even if he had, Patience would have said no, which didn't make getting over her any easier.

"Hey, Dallas!" Jade Egan walked toward him in a flashy, red sequined barrel-racing outfit, this one sporting red fringe. "You seen Stormy anywhere around?"

A muscle tightened in his cheek as his looked at the woman in front of him. "He's over by the trailer, saddling Gus for the calf roping." Jade had her claws bared, hoping to sink them into Stormy, and Dallas didn't like it. With Shari gone, his friend was too vulnerable, his feelings too raw. If Stormy could just take Jade to bed, it would probably be good for him. Lord knew, the woman could make a guy feel ten feet tall. She could also bring a man to his knees, and Stormy didn't need any more heartache.

Dallas headed for his trailer. Lobo needed to be saddled as well. It would be nice to win some money. He focused his mind in that direction and tried to keep Patience out of his thoughts.

In the end, he caught his steer but missed the loop with his pigging string and the calf came untied. No time. No score. No money.

He'd make up for it in the bronc riding, he told himself. But when his horse came out of the chute, he happened to glance toward the announcer's stand where a tall, leggy blonde stood next to Charlie. For an instant, he thought it was Patience and his heart nearly stopped beating.

But the woman wasn't Patience and the horse took a big, sideways leap to let him know how stupid he was for thinking it might be and piled him into the dirt.

Charlie was waiting as he walked out of the arena. "Dammit, boy. What the hell's wrong with you?"

A faint flush rose across the bones in his cheeks. "I got sidetracked, that's all."

"Now you listen here, son. You wanna win that title, you gotta get rid of all that stuff you're carryin' around with you and think about riding. Only riding. You hear what I'm tellin' you, son?"

Dallas nodded. Charlie was right. The problem was, he didn't much care. Somewhere along with losing Patience he had also lost the will to win. None of his goals seemed to matter the way they had before. He didn't care if he rode or didn't, didn't care if he won or lost.

And he didn't know if he would ever care again.

Patience couldn't sleep. It had been another long week. It was late Saturday night, two o'clock in the morning, and she lay there staring up at the molding on the ceiling. In the darkness, her mind tumbled with memories, thoughts of Dallas she couldn't seem to shake. The first time she'd seen him ride, how hard she had tried to dislike him. She remembered their first kiss and the time he had taken her to Houston, the look in his eyes when she had told him she thought she was frigid. The notion brought a smile to her lips.

He had taught her so much about loving. Dallas had awakened her desires, allowed her to become the passionate woman she had discovered herself to be, and she would always be grateful to him for it.

She remembered him at the ranch, how different he seemed there, how much more content. She had loved it there, too, loved the wildness, the heat, and the lush green rolling hills. He loved her, he had said, and Patience believed him. A man like Dallas Kingman did not lie.

Patience blinked into the darkness, trying to force down the lump in her throat. There was no use crying. She had done enough of that already. And in time, she would start feeling better. At least that's what her family said.

Earlier in the day, her father had dropped by to see her. He had been worried, she knew.

"I know you loved this man. It's obvious losing him has broken your heart."

"I'll get over it."

"You will, if that's what you want." They were standing in front of the stove in the kitchen, waiting for the tea kettle to boil.

"I know Dallas Kingman isn't the man you planned to fall in love with, that you hoped for the sort of relationship I once had with your mother, the kind I was fortunate again to find with your stepmother. I can't help thinking you're right, that marrying a man who fits into your life the way Tracy fits into mine would make you happier in the long run. But it's possible I'm wrong. Sometimes people who come from different worlds can find happiness together. They find a way to make their marriages work."

"Name one," Patience said.

"Well, let's see...How about our friends, Tom Shapiro and his wife, Mary Ann? Tom's a CPA and Mary Ann's an interior designer but they're still one of the happiest couples I know."

Patience rolled her eyes. "I don't think that's quite the same, Dad."

Her father's lips faintly curved. "Well, maybe it isn't, but I know there must be people who are happy. If you love him enough-"

"Please, Dad-don't."

The tea kettle whistled and she reached into the cupboard to get each of them a cup.

"You know all Tracy and I want is for you to be happy," her father said. "That's all that matters to us."

Patience set the mugs down on the counter, leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I know it is, Dad."

Her father meant well, but the visit had only made her feel worse. What if she was wrong? What if Dallas was exactly the right man for her and she was making the biggest mistake of her life? Hours had passed but she was still haunted by the thought.

The red numbers on the digital clock on the nightstand glowed into the darkness. More wide awake than ever, Patience shoved her rumpled hair out of her face and swung her legs to the side of the bed. Padding over to her computer, she sat down and flipped on the switch, waited for the screen to light up, then clicked up her e-mail.

She hadn't talked to Shari since her return to Boston, but they had e-mailed each other every few days. Patience opened her address book and found exracer@lightning.net, then began to compose a new message: It's the middle of the night. I can't stop thinking about him. Hope you're doing better than I am.

To her amazement, a few minutes later, a little musical note went off, signaling she had incoming mail. It came from Shari.

Can't believe you're up, too. Ain't loving someone a bitch?

Patience smiled at the words and started typing.

I'm glad you're here. I needed a friend tonight. I sure miss the good times we had.

Shari wrote back. Me, too.

Patience typed. Why did they have to be cowboys?

The reply came back.

Just rotten luck, I guess. We're doing the right thing. Get some sleep. Love ya, S.

Patience hoped Shari was right. It was good to talk to a friend, but she still wasn't sleepy. Instead of lying there tossing and turning, she spread out the research material she had collected on the two young women who had been murdered and the printout of the old Gazette newspaper article Constance Foster had sent.

Both murdered women had died during the summer, three years apart. The attack on the third woman happened-again when the rodeo was in town-three years after that. The miles between the three crimes required lengthy travel, which, by transportation modes of the day, posed a definite problem. Thinking back to the remarks in her great grandmother's journal, she figured most of the female contestants would have been traveling by train.

For the next half hour, Patience scanned the Internet, searching until she found records of old train routes across the western United States. She printed the map, then set it on the table in front of her. As she marked the location of each incident-Cheyenne, Denver, Colorado Springs-she noticed a dotted line connecting the towns. The map showed the Cheyenne and Rio Railroad made a stop at each of the towns.

Perhaps the man was also a contestant who followed the rodeo circuit by train. Whatever the truth, it was a connection. Tomorrow morning, she would continue checking things out.

Patience yawned, beginning to get sleepy at last. She shut down the computer, padded across the room, shrugged out of her terry cloth robe, and tossed it across the foot of the bed. The sheets felt cool and clean as she slid between them.

Still, as tired as she was, she couldn't fall asleep.

Patience was groggy Sunday morning when she awakened to a pounding at her door. Dragging herself out of bed, she pulled on her terry cloth robe.

"Just a minute! I'm coming!" It was only eight o'clock, she saw, as she reached the door. After last night, she could have used a few more hours sleep. Wondering who it could be, she checked the peephole, recognized the man with the salt-and-pepper hair and square-framed glasses standing outside the apartment, and turned the knob to let him in.

"Hi, Dad. This is a surprise. You and Tracy usually go out to breakfast on Sunday mornings."

"She's waiting in the car. I just rushed up to drop this off. It came in the mail for you yesterday afternoon. I guess your cousin didn't have the address of your apartment."

"My cousin? You mean Betty?"

"No, this is from Irma, one of Betty's sisters. According to the return address, she lives in Louisiana." He handed her the package and shoved his glasses up on his nose. "Got to run. You'll be over for supper, right?"

Patience nodded, her gaze roaming over the small, brown, paper-wrapped box.

"Good," her father said. "We'll see you then."

Patience closed the door behind him and carried the package over to the dining room table. She tore off the paper and opened the box. When she lifted the lid, her heart jumped to life. It was a leather-bound volume with Adelaide Whitcomb's name stenciled in gold letters on the cover at the bottom. There was also a card inside the box.

Dear Patience, My sister says she gave you one of Grandma Adelaide's journals. I ran across this one up in the attic and thought you might like to have it, too. I think there're one or two more, but I've never seen them and I don't know where they are. Hope this helps in your research.

Your cousin,

Irma

Patience tossed the letter back into the box with a mental note to write Irma a thank you. Hurriedly, she pulled out the leather-covered volume. The book was in far better condition than the earlier volume, since this one covered a period beginning some sixty years after the first.

Apparently, Adelaide Holmes Whitcomb had continued her writing throughout the years of her life. Though the middle volumes seemed to have disappeared, the one Patience held was the final work, written in the waning years of Addie's life.

Patience carried the journal over to the camel-back sofa and settled down to read, the few plans she had for the day flying out the window. Tucking her legs up beneath her, she made herself comfortable and cracked open the book.

She noticed the penmanship first, how much Addie's writing had changed in these later years. Unlike before, the pen strokes weren't smooth and efficient but thin and shaky, revealing her fading health and strength.

Still, it felt good to resume her friendship with a great-grandmother she would only know through the woman's written words. Patience read for several hours before she realized how much time had passed. She set the book aside and went in to shower and dress for the day, but the pull of the pages brought her back as soon as she was finished.

Addie was now a woman in her eighties. She had lost her husband some years back, but still lived there on the Whitcomb family farm. Suddenly curious whether Addie might have discovered anything more about the disappearance of Lucky Sims, Patience skimmed ahead, searching for any sort of reference.

Instead, toward the very end of the journal, Sam Starling's name leapt up from the page.

Patience straightened on the sofa, her gaze riveted to the shaky blue letters scrawled in Addie's hand.

The days have grown long, almost endless. I'm an old woman now and my time on earth is nearly over. As I look back, I know I've been blessed with a full and happy life. As a young woman, during my rodeo days, I knew a freedom few women ever know. In Whit, I had a loving husband, and together we raised four children we both could be proud of. But in these private pages, I have always been honest, and now, as I look back over the years, I write one simple truth. For all the blessings I have been granted, I have but one regret.

If I had my life to live over, if I were the young, hopeful girl I once was, I would marry my cowboy, Sam Starling. For I have loved him every day of my life and I shall love him until the last day I live."

The letters went hazy as Patience's eyes welled with tears. Her hands started trembling, her chest squeezing. She read the lines again and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Addie loved Sam. At eighty years old, Addie still loved him. She loved him and she had given him up, and she had regretted it every day of her life.

Patience's throat ached as she set the book away. Her chest felt so heavy it was hard to get enough air into her lungs.