"Wimp?" He lifted his head and looked at her. "You don't get it, do you?"

She just looked at him.

"You could have died," he said harshly. "Overdose. Driving off a cliff. Passing out and freezing to death. Take your pick. That's what somebody dished out to you when they filled your cup with drugs."

"Maybe my stomach just didn't like-"

"Bullshit, honey," he cut in angrily. "Just plain bullshit. I know what opiates are like, what they do to me. We were drugged."

The white plumes of his breath looked like smoke.

"I don't live in a world where people try to kill me," she said faintly. She still felt woozy, and beneath that she was plain scared. At least adrenaline was useful; it began to clear the fog from her brain. "People might frighten me and try to make me go away, but they don't try to kill me. Besides, anybody could have picked up the cup I did. You could have."

"I should have, but I jumped the queue. I got Alma's dose."

Carly blinked. "Huh?"

He started to explain how he'd taken the point of the remaining triangle rather than a cup from the base of the triangle. "Never mind. You're still not up to par. Think you can sit in the truck and not fall asleep or do you want to walk some more?"

"Keep scaring me. Adrenaline helps me focus."

"Adrenaline." He smiled, lowered his head, and bit her neck with exquisite care. His hand roamed down her back to her buttocks, flexed, squeezed, caressed, rubbed her against him.

Her breath came in with a strangled sound. Her heart raced. Her breathing deepened.

"How am I doing in the adrenaline department?" he asked after a few moments.

"Overload." She wrapped her arms around his neck and shivered. "Pure overload. Do it some more."

"Time to get back in the truck. You're cold."

She laughed. "A little wobbly around the edges, but not cold."

"You shivered."

"It wasn't from cold."

Dan's eyelids went to half-mast and he took a deep breath. "Right. Into the truck with you."

She nuzzled against his neck. "You sure?"

"We'll see how frisky you feel after the emergency room."

"What emergency room?"

"The one I'm taking you to as soon as we get to town."

"Wrong."

He opened the truck door on the passenger side, lifted her in, and fastened her seat belt.

"If I had too much wine and threw up," she said, "would you take me to a hospital?"

Without a word he shut her door and walked around the front of the truck.

"Well," she said when he climbed in and slammed the door, "would you?"

"Not unless you passed out," he said reluctantly.

"Ha. You went to college. How many of your buddies threw up, passed out, and woke up the next day with a hangover the size of Australia?"

"A few."

"How many did you take to the ER?" she asked.

Dan started the truck.

"That's what I thought," Carly said. "Besides, what would you tell the doctor, that I ate the wrong brownie and things went south?"

"You're thinking of hash or pot, not an opiate."

"The point is the same. You go to the doctors, they find traces of heroin or whatever, and I get to explain to the sheriff how it got there. Imagine how he'll react when I say, 'Gee, it must have been that farewell cup for Sylvia. You know those Quintrells-notorious dopers every one of them.' He'll have me locked up in a hot second. Then I won't be able to work on the Quintrell-Castillo history, which seems to be the whole point, doesn't it?"

Dan felt like banging something against the steering wheel-her head, his head, both.

She was right, but he didn't have to like it.

Without a word he drove the truck down the road, watching for lights in the mirror. Nothing but darkness. As soon as the road allowed, he pulled off and backed into the cover of the forest. When he was satisfied that he would be able to see the road but nobody could see him, he turned off the truck. Darkness slammed down around them.

Carly sat straighter and looked out the windows. "What's the attraction-submarine races?"

Smiling, he shook his head. "You're well on your way back to sassy."

"Thanks to you." She tried not to yawn. "Other than feeling more than a little buzzed, I'm fine. Do you have any more water?"

He reached under the seat and pulled out a fresh bottle. "Let me know if it makes you sick."

"You're such a Pollyanna."

"It's a gift." Dan sat and watched his passenger from the corner of his eye. The rest of his attention was on the road.

After a bit of a struggle, Carly managed to open the water. She took a mouthful, let it dissolve the foul flavor in her mouth, and spat it out the open window. The third time she did it, her mouth tasted more like her own. She sipped and swallowed tentatively. Another sip. Another.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

"So far. It's not like having too much booze in my blood. Drinking water doesn't make me feel worse."

He waited.

After a final sip she capped the water. "Let's see how that settles."

"Good idea." With that, Dan gave his full attention to the road. After five minutes, he glanced over at Carly again. "Doing okay?"

"I'm still fuzzy. But not like before. I can stay awake."

He took her pulse. Slow, but nothing to worry about. She was just really, really relaxed. He turned the ignition key so that he could run up the passenger window.

"Here," he said. "Sleep if you want to. It's safe now."

"You mean you aren't going to jump me?"

"This minute? No."

"Well, damn. Then why are we freezing our butts off out here?"

"Humor me."

"But-"

"Do you really want to know?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'm waiting to see who comes along."

"I figured that out. But why?"

"Somebody might be curious about how well the dope worked. Or to finish the job if you're still…" He shrugged.

Alive.

Neither said it.

Both thought it.

Chapter 36

QUINTRELL RANCH

LATE THURSDAY NIGHT

WINIFRED IGNORED THE SLUGGISHNESS OF HER BODY AND MIND, STRENGTH LOST to a drug, strength she couldn't afford to lose.

Who was it?

Who drugged us?

Why?

The questions battered her mind as much as illness battered her body.

Everybody could have. Once the doctor brought me into the room, my back was to the bottle holding the farewell toast. Or it could have been put in the empty cups.

Anyone. Anyone at all.

With a sharp movement of her head, she tossed back the stimulant she'd mixed for herself as soon as she'd understood what had happened. While the false strength hummed through her blood, she put away the old questions and asked another one.

Who couldn't have drugged us?

That was the person she would trust to mail the envelopes.

With steady rhythm and unsteady hands, she wheeled herself through the house's wide hallways to the Senator's office. She didn't see the paintings and sculpture, the expensive knickknacks from another time; she thought only about the members of the household, the people who had access to her herbs and those who didn't.

Nothing changed. It still could have been anyone. She would have to see to the copying and mailing herself.

She opened the door to the office and nudged her wheelchair through. Across the room, the old-fashioned clock ticked between photos of the Senator smiling into the camera, his eyes on the main chance and his hands ever ready to grab a female butt.

I should have killed him years ago.

But she hadn't. She'd been afraid of his son, a fear that proved wise.

She wheeled over to the desk. Everything she needed was there, from copier to computer to supplies. Melissa kept the office as if the Senator was still alive, still able to dictate letters and watch them typed. Outgoing material-bills and checks and orders for supplies-lay bundled on the polished wood tray at the edge of the old desk, just as mail always had at the ranch.