Free Smoketree by Jennifer Roberson Page B

Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not your villain.”
    He was serious. I stared at him, astonished by the note in his voice and the expression in his eyes. I had been kidding when I painted my picture for Brandon, but suddenly I wondered if I had unwittingly stumbled onto something. Why else would Harper treat it all so deadly seriously?
    “I just—I just came down to tell you about the new guests,” I said lamely, turning to make a quick exit. But he slipped through the rails and fell into step with me.
    “Why are you so intent on finding me out?” he asked.
    That jerked my head around. “You mean—you’re admitting it?”
    The moustache quivered. “No. But why would you care one way or another?”
    I shook my head in exasperation. “Just idle curiosity.”
    “Something like that, as I recall, killed the cat.”
    “You can’t be serious—” I began, laughing, and then said nothing more.
    Harper stopped as I did, turning to face me squarely. His posture was without aggression of any sort, but a coiled readiness was evident. His face was mostly shadowed, but I sensed the cool perusal in his too-direct eyes.
    Finally I found my voice. “You can’t be serious! Was that a threat?”
    I felt rather than heard his silent laughter. "A warning, merely. ”
    I shivered suddenly. “Should I be afraid of you?”
    His face tightened. “Be whatever you like.”
    I watched him walk up to the Porsche and greet the new guests. Then, shivering again and wondering if I should be amused or frightened, I went on to my cabin.

    Everyone was present at breakfast save the dark beauty. Her companion was as cherubic in daylight as he had been the night before, and he smiled in recognition and hurried over as I came in.
    “Thank you for your assistance last night. I’m Elliott Fitch, New York City. ” He extended a pudgy hand, gray eyes alight behind the steel-framed glasses.
    I took his hand and introduced myself. “Also New York City. ”
    He beamed at me. “Have you ever heard of Richelieu? ”
    I stared at him in surprise. “The finest French restaurant in New York? Of course!”
    He nodded, very pleased. “Then be my guest there sometime. The Count will see to it you are seated at the best table. ” I was startled at his casual mention of Richelieu maitre d’, one of the most exquisitely polite of the breed and elegantly fierce. “You know the Count?”
    His eyes twinkled. “I’m his employer . I’m Richelieu.” He paused, enjoying my embarrassed confusion. “Actually, Richelieu is just the name I chose because it sounded so French. Fitch's Place just wouldn’t have struck the proper tone, I’m afraid.”
    There was something warmly likeable about the pudgy little man, and I revised my initial reaction to the incongruity he and his lovely lady-friend presented. He was immensely pleased when I told him I patronized his restaurant frequently.
    “Is this your first visit to a dude ranch?” he asked, then went on before I could answer. “It is for me. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for forty years, ever since I was a boy.” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head with its short fringe of brown hair. “Francesca thinks all of this is very silly, and I suppose she’s right, but I decided to treat myself. And Francesca, of course.” His round, shiny face took on a decidedly puckish expression. “My wife and children are on vacation in Europe, you see-and now, have I offended you completely?”
    “No,” I said truthfully, although I did think them an odd pair. I’m sure he knew it.
    He sighed and glanced around, soaking up the ambience. “Well, I’m hoping to get some riding in today. That’s the main reason I came out here, you know—I wanted to see what a dude ranch was like, and spend most of my days riding.”
    “I’m sure Harper will fix you up with a good mount.” As good as Sunny, I wondered, or did he reserve the sorrel’s rump for