Being Arab-American, he was pretty much used to that of late, even if he had been born and raised in Texas.
The other cop stopped hooking some machine up to the phone line and checked him out, too. This one was half the other’s age and size, with live-wire black eyes.
Akeem focused on the beige plastic unit: a recorder. Getting ready for the ransom call.
Taylor didn’t miss that, either. She went a shade paler.
“Akeem Abdul. Friend of the family,” Akeem said and kept her close.
The first cop’s eyes went wide. “The Texas Sheik? No kiddin’.” Then he snapped to. “Yes, sir. Officer Peterson.”
“Officer Mills.” The other one went back to his work after a thorough look that seemed half amused, half disappointed.
Even those who didn’t know his face knew the Abdul name from Texas Double A—Akeem Abdul—Auctions. He ignored “Texas Sheik,” the nickname given by his competitors who resented his rapid rise in the ranks and had trouble digesting his Middle Eastern background, that his parents had been Beharrainian.
He pulled a chair for Taylor. The cops were only a minor annoyance. He’d long ago learned to rise above things like that. “Let me get you a drink.”
There had to be a hundred men out there already, combing the ranch. He could afford to wait with her until his security force got here and they rode out to meet Flint and join in the search. Christopher would be found. He would see to it.
Why would anyone take the kid? Who? If he could figure that out, they might have a better idea where to look. Which brought him to his next question. “Got a map of this place?”
“Right on the Web site.” She sat on a bar stool next to the kitchen counter, her troubled gaze settling on the fridge that was covered with crayon drawings of horses, and got up almost immediately again to pace the floor along the windows that looked toward the back.
She accepted the glass of water he brought her, but didn’t drink. The cops minded their own business. Seemed their orders were to stick to the house and wait, which they did with the efficiency of furniture.
Akeem strode to the PC on the kitchen isle—Lucinda, Flint’s housekeeper, was addicted to online recipe swaps—and shot straight to the Diamondback home page.
Taylor paused in her pacing. “Flint called you?”
He nodded instead of going into his investigation on murder and the sabotage and bomb parts at Diamondback and how they might be related to his auction house, which he’d come to talk over with Flint. He didn’t want to discuss that subject in front of the cops.
He set the form to print fifty copies then pushed the OK button. He wanted to have the maps ready to be handed out when his men arrived.
She was pacing again. Tension grew in the air with every second. He needed something to do. And so did she. “Want to walk through the outbuildings with me?”
She shot him a blank look as if her thoughts were a million miles away. “We already looked there.”
Her pain was a tangible presence in the room, like the thick, wet mist of winter mornings that settled into the lungs and made it hard to breathe. He wanted to take her into his arms again, wasn’t sure how she would react. Looked like movement was what she needed now to burn off all that nervous energy.
He strode toward her. “We’ll look again.”
“If there’s a call…” Officer Mills frowned.
“Every outbuilding has a phone. If someone calls, she can pick it up from anywhere.” He held his hand out to her.
And after a moment of hesitation, Taylor’s slim fingers slipped into his palm as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and his hand closed around hers.
He cleared his throat. “Bunkhouses first?”
She nodded and followed him out of the kitchen, slipped barefooted—golden polish on the sexiest toes under the sun, which he should definitely not have noticed at a moment like this—into a pair of worn snake-skin boots by the back door.
Eastern rattlesnake and a black leather top with fancy stitch.
Recognition flashed through him and lodged an odd feeling in the middle of his chest. The boots were spoils of a long-ago riding contest between the two of them.
She didn’t look as if she remembered. She didn’t look as though she could think of anything but getting her son back. And he would help her. As soon as his security team got here—the best of the best—they would be putting together a plan.
“How did it happen?” Maybe if he kept her talking, she would have less time to worry.
“He wanted to go out to the horses before breakfast.” She drew a deep breath as they stepped outside and the heat hit them. “I didn’t think much of it when he didn’t come back for a while. He’s always losing track of time when he’s around animals. This place has been like a wonderland to him…” She trailed off as they crossed the yard to the first bunkhouse.
“Christopher, honey?” she called while he systematically searched the place—a manly mess—looking under every blanket, under every bed, in every chest, in every wardrobe.
“Not here. Let’s check the next.”
She looked up to the sun as they stepped out of the bunkhouse, her face tight. He knew what she was thinking. If her son was out there in this heat, every minute counted.
“And then?” he asked.
“I went looking for him, asking the guys. He’d been out to the colts, but not for long, they said.”
“Who saw him last?”
“Nobody’s sure. It’s busy around here in the mornings. Everyone has a million chores to get done before the heat hits and makes work twice as difficult. Everyone’s always rushing around.”
They entered the next bunkhouse.
“Christopher?”
He repeated the search, then they went through the same routine again and again with the next building and the next.
His phone rang—Deke Norton, a close friend to the Aggie Four and a trusted business associate.
