"This guy's loaded," she went on, slightly mollified by the roaring clack of a helicopter that buzzed the near field. "He's got a thriving, successful business in Dallas. But he chooses to live out here. Voluntarily. There's something really sick about that."
With a laugh, Roarke picked up her hand, the one that kept inching up toward her weapon, and kissed it. "There are all kinds of people in the world."
"Yeah, and most of them are crazy. Jesus, are those cows! Cows shouldn't be that big, should they? It's unnatural."
"Just think steaks, darling."
"Uh-uh, that's just creepy. Are you sure this is the right way? This can't be right. There's nothing out here."
"May I point out the several houses we're passing along this route?"
"Yeah, but I think the cows must live in them." She had a flash of bovine activities inside the low-slung houses. Watching some screen, having cow parties, making cow love in four-poster beds. And shuddered. "God, that's creepy, too. I hate the country."
Roarke glanced down at the in-dash navigation screen. He'd worn jeans and a white T-shirt, and a pair of sleek, black sunshades. It was a casual look for him, even simple. But he still looked like city. Rich city, Eve mused.
"We should be there in a few minutes," he told her. "There's a bit of civilization up ahead."
"Where?" She risked taking her attention away from the cows, looked through the windshield and saw the spread of a town. Buildings, fuel stations, shops, restaurants, more houses. Her gut loosened a little. "Okay, that's good."
"But we're not going through there. We veer off here." So saying, he turned off the wide ribbon of road onto a narrow offshoot. One that, in Eve's opinion, brought them entirely too close for comfort to those strange, flat grassy fields.
"Those fences don't look all that strong."
"If there's a stampede, we'll outrun them."
She moistened her lips, swallowed. "I bet you think that's funny."
But she was somewhat mollified as there were other vehicles on the road. Other cars, trucks, long sleek trailers, and a few topless power Jeeps.
Buildings began to spring up. Not houses, Eve thought. Farm buildings or ranch buildings. Whatever. Barns and sheds and animal shelters. Stables, she supposed. Granaries or whatever they were. Silos, and what kind of word was that? It looked like a painting with all that grass, the crops, the bored-faced cattle, and the strong reds and whites of the outbuildings.
"What's that guy doing?" she demanded, inching up in the seat to stare beyond Roarke's profile.
"He appears to be riding a horse."
"Yeah, yeah, I can see that. But why?"
"I have no idea. Perhaps he wants to."
"See?" To punctuate it, she slapped Roarke's shoulder. "Sick. People are just sick." She let out a little breath of relief when she spotted the ranch house.
It was enormous, sprawling all over hell and back on one story. Portions of it were painted that same bright white and others looked to be fashioned from stones cobbled all together on a whim. There were sections built of glass, and she nearly shuddered at the idea of standing there looking out at field after field. And having what was in those fields looking in at her.
There were smaller fenced areas, and while there were horses in them, there was also considerable human activity. That relieved her, even if those humans were all wearing cowboy hats.
She saw a helipad and a number of vehicles, many of which she couldn't begin to identify. She had to assume they were used for some sort of rural labor.
They drove through enormous stone pillars topped by rearing horses.
"Okay, he knows we're coming, and he's not happy about it," she began. "He's bound to be hostile, defensive, and uncooperative. But he's also smart enough to know I can complicate his life, dredge up the past, and press the local cops to add some pressure. He doesn't want all this crap uncovered in his backyard. Doing this on his turf lets him feel more in control."
"And how long are you going to let him feel that way?"
"We'll see how it goes." She stepped out of the car and nearly lost her breath in the heat.
A baking heat, she realized, very unlike the steambath of a New York City summer. She smelled grass and what had to be manure. "What's that clacking sound?" she asked Roarke.
"I'm not altogether sure. I think it might be chickens."