Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

they were, whether there was more than flirtation between them, but I thought such speculations were misplaced. Bret's emotions were buried deep, not hanging on his sleeve where people could get a grip on them. At the most, I guessed that Bret had been mildly fond of Cindy; whether he'd slept with her was an open question, but he wouldn't suffer much grief over her-certainly not over Ed. Ed hadn't been crazy about Bret; I expected few husbands were. For his part, Bret had always been unwilling to act very impressed about Ed's money.
    In fact, I realized I wasn't sure what Bret felt about the Whitneys; to be honest, I wasn't even sure what he felt about me. Bret was of the same nature as a big tiger tomcat who had come to live with me for six months while I was in college. Aloof and independent, he had charmed me when he felt like it with his big yellow eyes and his purrs, then moved out abruptly and finally; I never knew why. Had he used me; was he fond of me? Such questions seem ridiculous when asked of cats, but they applied to Bret.
    "Where'd you stay last night?" I asked him, remembering that his last home in Santa Cruz had been with a long departed girlfriend.
    His attention snapped back from wherever it had been with a visible jerk. One finger tapped my desk.
    "In my truck," he said at last.
    "Not at Cindy's?" I said, suddenly filled with foreboding.
    He looked at me intently and I knew I was on the track to that thing his unfocused eyes had been seeing. "No," he said. "But it was kind of strange why I didn't."
    He glanced around the back room as if seeing it for the first time. The white counters covered with books, papers, medicines, and machines. The orderly mess. A female tech in a lab coat sat at the other end of a long counter, looking in a microscope. Bret studied her carefully, the speculative look he gave all women, before turning back to me.
    "Let's go have lunch. Little Mexico?"
    "Sure."
    I had already checked out for the day. It was just a question of getting out of the office before someone called in and the receptionist came back and cornered me. "Come on," I told him, "we'd better get if we're going."
    Bret drove us to Little Mexico in his truck, the cab crowded with a rolled-up sleeping bag, three or four brown paper bags full of clothes, a couple of coats, and half a dozen empty beer cans. Everything smelled like Skoal-mint green tobacco-and unwashed clothes.
    At the restaurant, he moved instantly to sit on the deck. It was sunny and almost hot out there, and we ate tortilla chips with a spicy salsa that had big chunks of peppers in it. Bret thought we ought to drink margaritas.
    "Sitting on the deck, on an afternoon like this?" He gestured around.
    "I want to be able to function the rest of the day."
    "One," he held up a finger. "One liter."
    We ordered the margaritas.
    Leaning back in my chair, I watched his eyes drift around and felt a familiar half-annoyed amusement. They were the eyes of a burglar checking a house for valuables to steal; Bret was looking for women to hustle. He was perfectly capable of spotting one he liked, striking up a conversation with her, and trying to talk me into finding my own way back to the office. At times like that, I wondered what I was doing with him; his carefree irresponsibility often verged into irritating selfishness. To be fair, I supposed my dogged I've-gotta-make-a-living-attitude bored him to death. Common childhood memories probably didn't hurt, or maybe it was just old habits dying hard.
    One thing was for sure; Bret never threatened my sense of independence. A secretive, private person himself, he shied away instantly at the merest hint that anyone might cling to him. Evasion of intimacy was his forte.
    I took a sip of my margarita-icy, head-tightening cold. Little Mexico made the best margaritas in town, not sweet at all, with a faint background of lime and a kick like a mule. Resting my chin in my hand, I studied Bret's expression. Despite the fact that