Blue Smoke and Murder by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

easy-moving way.
    She shook her head at the direction of her thoughts. She’d never jumped a man. She wasn’t planning on starting now, no matter what her hormones were pushing for.
    “What did St. Kilda say about Blanchard?” she asked, turning away from anything personal.
    “There are art dealers in east Texas, and there are men with the last name of Blanchard in east Texas, but no man fits in both categories. Or woman.”
    “He could have been just visiting, or looking for art.”
    “He could have been a figment of his own imagination.”
    She smiled rather grimly. “Yeah, that occurred to me when I saw my trashed car.”
    Zach studied the weathered cabin with its thick, crooked shutters and rifle slits that had been filled in during a later, safer era. He’d seen the bones of pioneer cabins while he scoured the rural West for old muscle cars, but he’d never seen a place this old that people still occupied.
    “The dude was hoping you’d bring the paintings with you,” Zach said.
    “I’d have to be dumb as road apples to do that.”
    Laughing, he turned and watched the sunlight burn gold and red in Jill’s hair. “You’d be surprised how dumb people are.”
    “Actually, I wouldn’t,” she said. “I’ve had men refuse to get in my raft because—”
    “—you’re a girl,” Zach cut in. “Stupid. Any man who looked at more than the usual places would see that you’re an athlete.”
    “Usual places?”
    “Tits and ass.”
    She snickered. “I think it comes with the Y gene.”
    “So Y gene equals stupid?”
    “It can.” She opened the truck door and slid out. “Ditto for XX. I’ve seen all kinds of stupid on the river.”
    Zach got out, looked once more at their back trail. No dust, no sign of watchers. The idea of her living here alone made him twitchy. No matter how fit she was, a professional with a knife or a gun—or a torch—would make short work of her.
    But he wasn’t dumb enough to say it aloud. She’d get mad, he’d get mad, and they’d get nowhere fast.
    The wind picked up again, playing with the cottonwood leaves that had already fallen and tugging more free from the tree’s broad crown.
    Zach followed Jill into the cabin and through the small kitchen to the pantry. She fiddled at the back of one of the cabinets, it moved, and an opening into the sandstone appeared.
    “Cool,” Zach said, grinning. “My great-great-grandmother used to tell stories about living like this on a pioneer homestead in what became New Mexico. Never expected to see one of these old hiding places still in working order.”
    “We lived simply, but we lived on our own terms.”
    “That’s the way my mother’s family felt.” He watched as Jill bentover and tugged at something. The much-used material of her jeans shaped a very nice ass. “Need any help?”
    “Need? No. But I wouldn’t mind.”
    In the name of duty, Zach crowded close to Jill until he could look into the opening. Her hips felt even better than they looked.
    “The trunk?” he asked.
    “Yeah.”
    He rubbed past her until he could reach a handle on the old steamer trunk. The leather was worn and brittle with age, but it held when he pulled on it.
    Jill lifted her end of the trunk and staggered slightly, surprised. The trunk felt a lot lighter with him on the other end. After a few bumps and missteps, they got it into the kitchen.
    “Was your great-aunt’s note in here?” Zach asked.
    “No. It was under the primer bucket at the sink.”
    “Smart. Only someone who planned to use the pump would lift the bucket.”
    “Modesty was smart. Hard, too. That’s how she survived.” She looked up at Zach. “And you’re one of the few people in my generation who knows about hand pumps and primer buckets.”
    “That’s me.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Just an old-fashioned sort of guy.”
    “Got a bridge to sell me, too, right?”
    “Any time you’re in a buying kind of mood.”
    Jill hid her smile as she bent over and