Raising The Stakes
Raising The Stakes
Sandra Marton
Immerse yourself again in the drama and passion of Sandra Marton’s bestselling story.
The winner takes all…
Wealthy attorney Gray Baron has come to Las Vegas on a mission to find a woman—Dawn Lincoln Kittredge, the long-lost grandchild of his uncle. But feisty Dawn is not about to make anything easy for him…
After being hurt in the past, Dawn is wary of strangers, even gorgeous, sexy ones like Gray. But mutual suspicion doesn’t stop an undeniable passion from igniting between them. As the tension mounts, all bets are off!
Originally published in 2002.
Raising the Stakes
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#ubfdaeec1-0327-509e-a559-ea1a0cbbbc61)
Back Cover Text (#u53cca2d0-3c4e-5ac4-8178-793343200dec)
Title Page (#ub1c24f85-d3c4-5ddc-90a3-ccfed50e4a54)
PROLOGUE (#ua205eff5-8ed0-5e2a-af80-53cfb4528b79)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5510f10f-8a32-55f6-8c2b-6ecf10a9a471)
CHAPTER TWO (#u0f2a2be8-404c-5588-850b-2015fd6b115d)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc2fb578b-e2be-51fa-9400-1fd5b48d4621)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5e4388af-a51a-5281-a9f8-5c7371cb7923)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
IN THE darkness of the hot summer night, Dawn lay curled like a baby in its mother’s womb as she listened to the frantic slap, slap, slap of the silk moth’s wings against the screen.
She couldn’t see the moth, not from here in the back bedroom, but she knew it was outside the kitchen window, shredding its beautiful wings in a useless attempt to reach the light.
The silk moth had turned up at dusk, right after she’d fed Tommy and put him to bed for the night.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” she’d whispered, and he’d given her his biggest, brightest three-year-old smile.
“An’ don’t let the bed bugs bite,” her son had replied, as he always did.
Dawn had kissed him, loving his sweet, baby scent. Tommy had rolled onto his belly and she’d drawn a light blanket over his upraised rump. Her smile had faded as she’d shut the door to his room and looked around the cabin, trying to see it through Harman’s eyes. Did she miss anything when she dusted earlier? Had she put all Tommy’s toys away?
She’d paused beside the sofa, smoothed down the flowered chenille throw that covered the seat cushion where the spring had popped. Everything looked fine but what looked fine to her didn’t necessarily look that way to her husband, especially on Friday nights when he cashed his paycheck at the Foodco and then stopped for drinks on the way home.
It didn’t always happen that way. Once in a while, Harman just came straight home. Those times weren’t perfect. He still liked things exactly as he liked them. “Everything in order,” he called it, “the way a man’s entitled, in his own home.” But it was easier on nights when he didn’t stop at the bar. Without liquor in him, he was still surly and he’d talk mean, too, but he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—
Dawn blanked her mind to the rest.
The thing to do was keep busy, not notice that if Harman were heading directly for the cabin, he’d have been here an hour ago. She took a breath, glanced in the spotted oval mirror that hung over the table near the door. Did she look okay? Not too tired? Harman didn’t like her to look tired. It was the baby’s fault, he’d say, when she yawned too much or her eyes didn’t sparkle the way he liked. The baby was sapping her energy. Once she’d made the mistake of saying no, no, it wasn’t like that. The baby was the joy of her life.
“I am the joy of your life,” Harman had said coldly. “You remember that, girl.”
She would. Yes, she would. Because it wasn’t how he’d looked at her that had scared her, or how he’d sounded. It was the way he’d looked at Tommy afterward, as if their son was a trespasser in a world that had been perfect until he’d been born. It had never been perfect, not ever, not from the day after the wedding when she’d thoughtlessly left her lipstick and comb on the bathroom sink…
Dawn spun away from the mirror, went into the kitchen, took a broom from the closet and stepped out onto the sagging porch. It would need sweeping. The tall oaks that surrounded the cabin were what made the mountain so handsome, but Harman didn’t much care for seeing leaves and acorns on the porch.
“Got to be swept twice a day,” he said.
So Dawn swept it, twice a day. Sometimes more than that, just to be sure. And that night, as she’d swept, she’d seen the silk moth.
It wasn’t the first one she’d ever seen. Years ago, when she was a little girl, a moth just like it had come swooping in through the open trailer door. Her mother had screamed as if it was a creature straight out of hell, grabbed a rolled-up magazine and gone after it.
“Kill it,” she’d yelled, “kill it!”
Instead Dawn caught the moth and took it outside, feeling the delicate pink wings trembling with terror in her cupped hands. She’d set it free in the stand of scraggly trees between the trailer park and the highway.
“Go on,” she’d whispered, “spread your pretty wings and fly far, far away.”
Her mother slapped her when she went back into the trailer, not very hard because she was already high on what she called her pain pills, but just enough to remind her that she’d been disobedient.
“I tell you to do a thing,” she’d said, “you do it. You got that, girl?”
Dawn got it. Rules were to be obeyed. Still, she’d risked breaking another one the next day. She was supposed to go straight home after school. She had chores to do and stopping off anywhere, especially at the library to poke her nose into books that gave her, Orianna said, fancy ideas, was forbidden. But Dawn wanted to know the name of the beautiful moth whose life she’d saved. She found a picture of it in the encyclopedia. It was a Glover’s silk moth, a thing of rare beauty, and though she’d always hoped to see one again, she never had.
She knew it was silly but tonight she wondered if, by some miracle, the moth on the porch might be the one she’d saved years ago. She paused in her sweeping, watching the moth with delight until, suddenly, she heard the sound of a truck laboring up the mountain.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Was it Harman? So early? That would be good. It would mean he hadn’t stopped for more than a drink or two—but it would be bad, too. She wasn’t done sweeping and just look, she’d somehow gotten a stain on her skirt.
It wasn’t Harman. The sound of the engine died away. Dawn dragged a breath into her lungs and swept the porch until the unpainted boards were spotless. Not that it mattered. If he came home drunk, she could have swept a hundred times over and he’d still find a speck of dirt, a bit of leaf, something, anything, and when he did…
She switched the thought off, just clicked it to silence as if it were a station on a radio because she’d learned there wasn’t any sense, really, in thinking ahead. Whatever happened would happen. Nothing she could do would change it. She could only sweep harder and faster and not do anything stupid, like hurrying back inside the cabin and waking Tommy so he could see the silk moth. Her son loved all the creatures that shared this godforsaken mountain with them, but why take him from his bed to see something that would surely be dead by morning? And it would be dead, drawn by the light Harman insisted must be on so he could be sure she wasn’t in the arms of one of the nonexistent men he was convinced came around whenever he wasn’t there.
Once, exhausted at the end of a day spent cooking and cleaning in hopes of pleasing him, she’d forgotten the light. Harman had come in late and dragged her out of bed, to the front room and the unlit lamp.
“Did you think you could hide in here without my knowin’ what you were up to?” he’d said, and when she’d tried to explain that she hadn’t done anything, that his preoccupation with her leaving on the light didn’t make any sense, he’d called her a liar and a whore. He’d beaten her and then he’d unzipped his jeans, torn off her nightgown and pushed himself inside her.
She never forgot to turn on the light after that.
It was like a beacon, shining there in the blackness of the mountain night, luring the gossamer-winged creatures of the forest to their deaths. The silk moth would meet the same fate. It would beat its delicate wings to pieces in a fruitless attempt to reach a warm, shiny world that was only an illusion. Bad enough she knew that awful truth. Why would she want Tommy to know it, too? Her son had lots of time to learn about the world.
So she’d finished sweeping a floor that didn’t need sweeping and now she lay in the dark, listening to the pathetic slap of the moth’s wings, to the quick thud of her own heart as it grew later and later. At last, she heard the whine of her husband’s pickup truck as it made its way toward the clearing.
Dawn shuddered, held her breath. If she could only feign sleep…
The truck door slammed. Booted feet stomped up the wooden steps and across the porch. The door opened.
Maybe it would be okay. Harman had been good to her, once. When he’d asked her to marry him, when he’d offered to take her away from her mother and the trailer park and the endless stream of men who slept in her mother’s bed, he’d seemed the answer to her prayers.
“Shit!”
Dawn dug her face into the muslin pillow tick. Stay asleep, Tommy, she thought frantically, don’t, oh don’t wake up. Not that Harman would ever hurt their son, she was sure of that, but still…
Another noise. More cursing. The sound of Harman falling, then getting to his feet.
“Goddammit,” he roared. “What the hell is this?”
Oh, God! Had he tripped over something? What? What could she have left on the floor? She’d put the broom away. The dustpan. The chairs were lined up under the table just so, all of them neatly arranged. Tommy’s toys, such as they were, were carefully placed on the shelf in his room…
The red car.
The brand-new red plastic car she’d bought at the supermarket, even though it cost two dollars, because of the way her baby had looked at it, his blue eyes going all round with wonder. He’d played with it all afternoon, rolling it back and forth, back and forth while she folded laundry until, finally, he’d fallen sound asleep right there at her feet, the car clutched in his chubby fist. She’d smiled, scooped him up, carried him to his crib—and kicked the red car, by mistake. It had rolled toward the corner and she’d forgotten it, forgotten to look for it.
The bedroom door shot open. The light flashed on. Don’t move, Dawn thought desperately, don’t open your eyes, don’t blink, don’t stir, don’t breathe…
“Get up!”
She scrambled up against the pillows, clutching the quilt to her chin. Her husband loomed over her, looking as big as the mountain he came from and as mean as the storms that blew across it.
“Harman. Please. I didn’t mean to—”
The first blow caught her across her cheek. The second was better aimed and got her in the jaw. Her head snapped back; the coppery taste of blood was on her tongue.
“Where’d this come from, huh? Where’d it come from?”
He shook his fist under her nose, opened his hand, let her look at what lay in his palm. It was Tommy’s red car.
“Answer me, dammit. Where’d you get this?”
“I bought it. In Queen City.”
He hit her again, this time with the hand that held the toy. Dawn felt the skin split just above her eye.
“Ain’t no toy stores in Queen City, bitch. Try another lie.”
“I didn’t buy it at a toy store.” She was gasping for breath now. Harman was clutching her by the neck. He hoisted her to her knees and his fingers pressed hard into her throat. “Harman? Harman, please. I can’t breathe.”
“Who was here? What man came here and brought this to keep my son silent while you and he rutted in my bed?”
“Nobody. I swear it. Nobody was here. I bought the car. At the supermarket. They sell toys now, and Tommy saw this, and he wanted it so badly that I—”
She cried out as he lifted her from the bed and threw her against the dresser. Pain shot up her spine and into her neck.
“Liar,” he snarled as he bent over her. The stink of his breath choked her.
“It’s the truth. You know I don’t have men here, Harman. Why would I? I love you. Only you. Nobody but—”
He punched her. Dawn’s head jerked back and he hit her again, then curled his hand into the neckline of her nightgown and ripped it down to the hem.
“Whore! Harlot! Only a decent woman knows the meaning of love.”
“Harman. Please. Please, oh sweet Jesus, don’t—”
“Bitches like you ain’t fit to use His name.”
He hit her again. And again. By the time he tossed her on the bed and unzipped his pants, the world had become a gray blur.
“You won’t learn,” he said, as he came down on top of her. “I try and try to teach you to be a good wife but you—just—won’t—”
Dawn moaned as he seated himself deep inside her. She could feel her dry flesh tear as he pounded into her again and again until, finally, she felt the hot spurt of his discharge. He fell against her, his breathing harsh, the reek of him like sewage in her nostrils. She could feel wetness between her legs. Was it from him, or was it blood?
I hate you, she thought, God, I hate you, Harman Kitteridge. I wish you were dead!
No. It was wrong to think such things. This was her husband. She had taken vows that bound her to him. He was the father of her child.
Maybe he was right. Maybe all this was her fault. She didn’t lie with other men, she didn’t even talk to other men, but surely she did things that made him angry. She could learn to do things his way. The right way. She could—she could plan a little better, look at the sink and notice that she’d put the soap dish in the wrong place or see that she hadn’t folded his work shirts the way he preferred them folded.
She could leave him.
No. She could never do that. It wasn’t right. A wife was supposed to cleave to her husband. Besides, there was the baby to consider. She’d grown up without a father; she knew that a child deserved better than that. And Harman didn’t mistreat the baby. He’d never raised a hand to him. Tommy loved his daddy. He loved him. Wasn’t that worth the world?
Dawn lay stiff and silent under her husband’s suffocating weight. He was a heavy man, big and muscled from years of working the timber on the mountain. She was small, just like her mother. But she knew better than to complain that he was crushing her and, after a long time, Harman grunted and rolled off her.
Dawn waited. Then, slowly, carefully, she began inching toward the edge of the mattress. She had to wash, put some ice on her jaw and on her temple. Her little boy was getting older. The last time Harman had beaten her, Tommy’s eyes had gone wide when he saw her in the morning.
“Mama hurt?” he’d said, as he’d touched his soft baby fingers to the cut on her lip.
“No, darlin’,” Dawn had answered, “no, Mama’s fine…”
“Where you think you’re goin’?”
She gasped, jerked back as Harman’s hand closed hard on her wrist. “Nowhere. Just—just to the bathroom.”
“You was goin’ to check on the kid.”
“Well—well, yes. I thought the baby might have kicked off the blankets and—”
“He ain’t a baby no more. Don’t need you hangin’ over him all the time.”
“He’s only three, Harman. I just want to—”
She cried out as his fingers bit into her flesh. “He’s only three,” he mimicked cruelly. His voice dropped, grew flat and cold. “Three’s plenty big enough for him to know to put away his damn toys.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll teach him.”
“You’d better. ‘Cause if you don’t, I will.”
A chill shuddered down her spine. “Harman. He’s just a baby. He’s just—Ahh. Harman. Please. Don’t. Don’t—”
Dawn closed her eyes as her husband climbed between her thighs and shoved himself inside her again. Each surge of his body was like a blow.
When he was done, she rolled away from him, rolled into a tight ball and lay shaking in the dark, her hand curled into a fist and shoved between her teeth to keep them from chattering. It had never been this bad before. Never. And it was her fault. Hers. It had to be. If she just learned to be a good wife…
“You’re no good.” Harman’s voice rumbled in the silence. “You never will be. You’re just like your mama. Don’t know how in hell I came to marry a bitch like you.”
Dawn bit back a sob. There was no sense in contradicting him, in reminding him that he’d seduced her into thinking a life with him would be better than the one she’d been living, that she’d gone to his bed a virgin.
“Don’t know why I ever thought you’d make me a good wife or that you’d be a good mother to my son.” The bedsprings squealed as he rolled onto his back. “The boy’s turnin’ out bad already.” He yawned; his voice took on the blurry softness of alcohol-induced sleep. “But I’ll fix that. I’ll teach him the right way. I’ll turn your little baby into a man.”
“No.” The word burst from her lips. “Harman, no. Not Tommy. You can’t—”
“I can do whatever in hell I want. This is my house. The boy is my flesh and blood. Startin’ tomorrow, I’m gonna start teachin’ him that.”
“Harman—”
A whimper drifted through the thin wall. Dawn grew rigid with fear as the whimper grew stronger.
“Wazzat?”
“The wind,” she said quickly, “it’s just the wind.”
“Mama?”
The baby’s cry was soft but it seemed as loud as a church bell in the silence. Tommy, she thought, Tommy, no, please, baby, no. Go back to sleep.
“Mama?” her son said, and began to cry.
“It’s the kid,” Harman grumbled. “Just listen at him, sobbin’ like a girl.”
“He’s not. He’s just—we must have woken him. He heard us and he’s afraid. He’s only a baby.”
“I’ll give him somethin’ to be afraid of,” her husband said. He rose up on one elbow, groaned and fell back against the pillows. “In the mornin’. I’m too wore out now. Man works all day, comes home for a little peace and quiet and does he get it?”
“Maaamaaa…”
“Go shut the kid up, you hear me, Dawn? You keep him quiet, or else.”
Dawn sprang from the bed. She tugged what remained of her nightgown together and ran into the next room. Tommy was standing up in his crib. He was too big for it, really, and suddenly she knew why she hadn’t suggested it was time to put him into a bed, because she’d been afraid of this all along, afraid of Harman taking a good look at their child and realizing he wasn’t a baby any longer.
“Mama?”
Tommy sobbed her name, lifted his arms to her and she scooped him up, held him close, soothed him with whispers and kisses.
“Hush, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Mama’s here. She won’t let anybody hurt you.”
Except, it was a lie. Harman would hurt him and she’d be powerless to stop it from happening. Hot tears burned her eyes. Why had she denied the truth for so long? Her husband was a monster. He took pleasure from inflicting pain on those too weak to fight back. Tommy’s life would be even worse than hers. He was a child, and helpless. Harman would brutalize him…and when he grew up, what kind of man would he be? One who’d learned to beat others into submission with his fists?
No. God, no. She couldn’t let that happen. She was the one who had brought her baby into this and she was the only one who could save him. Dawn knew it as surely as she knew that the silk moth outside would be dead by morning.
Sounds came through the thin wall. Harman was asleep and snoring. He’d snore straight through to morning and wake up mean-tempered and even more dangerous than he was now.
Quietly she stole from the baby’s room to the kitchen where the day’s laundry lay neatly folded in a wicker basket, awaiting the touch of the iron. She always ironed on Saturdays. Harman preferred it like that. He liked to sit by the stone hearth and watch her iron. She’d told herself it was a charming, homey thing to do. Now, for the first time, she saw it for what it was, a fabrication that made them seem like a real family when they were actually something out of a nightmare.
Tommy had fallen asleep. Holding him carefully in one arm, Dawn dug into the basket for a change of clothes for her son and a cotton dress and underwear for herself. Gently she laid him in the basket while she stripped off her torn nightgown and put on the fresh clothes. She knew she looked a mess, not just because her dress was unironed but because her face had to be bruised. Almost as an afterthought, she looked down at her feet. No shoes. Well, that was all right. Shoes were easy enough to come by.
Life wasn’t.
Dawn settled the baby in the crook of one arm as she took the flour canister from the cupboard and dug down inside it for the few dollars she’d managed to squirrel away from what she earned selling her blackberry preserves each season. She’d never let herself think about why she’d saved the money and hidden it; it had been a terrible risk that would surely have brought her a beating. Now, she knew she’d put the money aside in anticipation of this moment.
Harman’s keys lay on the floor, glittering in the light cast by the lamp. She picked them up, opened the door and stepped onto the porch where the thwarted silk moth still beat against the window screen. Dawn hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she went back into the house and reached for the lamp.
The light blinked out. The awful sound of the moth’s wings thudding fruitlessly against the screen stopped in almost the same instant. Carefully Dawn eased the door open and stepped outside. In the faint wash of the moon, she could see the creature hovering in confusion at the window.
As she had done so many years before, she scooped up the silk moth with her hand.
“Fly away,” she whispered. “Fly away, and don’t ever come back.”
The moth’s great wings beat. It lifted into the air, hung suspended before her for an instant, then flew into the night. Dawn climbed into her husband’s truck, strapped her baby into the seat beside her. She took a deep breath, stuck the key into the ignition, turned it and stepped down, hard, on the gas.
In her heart, she’d always known it would come to this, that she would have to take her child and run for his life and for hers.
She was leaving the monster she’d married and she was never, ever coming back.
CHAPTER ONE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
Four years later:
GRAHAM BARON stepped out of the terminal at the Austin airport and wondered how he’d ever survived spending the first seventeen years of his life in Texas. He was thirty-three and lived in New York now but whenever he came back here, the fact that he’d been born in this place always surprised him. It all seemed alien. The people. Their lazy drawls. The vastness of land and sky. The weather.
Oh, yeah, he thought, the weather, as the heat washed over him like an open furnace. And it wasn’t really summer. Of course, there were those who said this wasn’t really Texas, either. The guidebooks called the area hill country. So did people back East.
“Are you really from Texas?” somebody would say, if the subject of his birthplace came up.
“Yup,” he’d reply, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and putting on a John Wayne drawl, “ah surely am.”
It always got a laugh, considering that he had no accent, didn’t wear cowboy boots and had washed away the stink of oil, cattle and horses sixteen long years ago.
“Where in Texas?” they’d ask. And when Gray said he’d been born in Austin, someone would nod wisely and say, Austin, huh? Wasn’t that, like, different? Weren’t there green trees and rolling hills in Austin? It wasn’t really the same as the rest of the state, right?
Like hell it wasn’t, Gray thought as he put down his briefcase, peeled off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and rolled back his shirtsleeves. A man accustomed to a soaring Manhattan skyline had little use for the puny imitation of this one, and the hills of Central Park rolled as much as the land around here.
Dammit, he was in a rotten mood. For what had to be the hundredth time since he’d boarded the plane at La Guardia this morning, he wished he hadn’t let himself get talked into making this trip…but he had. What was that old saying? Curiosity killed the cat. In his case, it had put him on a 6:00 a.m. flight to Texas.
A horn beeped at the curb. Gray looked over, saw a dark green Jeep with the Espada longhorns painted on the door. Abel Jones waved a hand. Gray waved back and trotted over.
“Nice of you to pick me up,” he said as he got into the seat beside Abel and dumped his briefcase in the back.
Abel gave him a long look, then spat out the window and pulled into traffic. “Jes’ part of the job,” he said laconically.
So much for conversation. Not that Gray was surprised. Jonas Baron’s foreman was a lot like the old man himself. Tall, spare, seemingly ageless, and not given to small talk. Well, that was fine. Gray wasn’t much interested in conversation. He sat back, let the coolness of the air-conditioning wash over him as they made their way out of the airport and onto the highway that led from the city to the town of Brazos Springs, and tried to figure out what his uncle could possibly want.
Jonas had phoned late last night. The call had drawn Gray from the kind of deep sleep that came of having a woman lying warm and sated in his arms. The woman, someone he’d been seeing for several weeks, murmured a soft complaint as he rolled away from her and reached for the telephone, an automatic reaction that came of eight years of practicing criminal law.
You got a lot of middle of the night calls, when your clients weren’t exactly the salt of the earth.
“Gray Baron,” he said hoarsely.
The voice that responded was one he hadn’t heard in a long time, an easy Texas drawl laid over a whip-sharp tone of command.
“Graham?”
“Jonas?” Gray peered at the lighted dial on his alarm clock, then sat up against the pillows. “What’s happened?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your old man, if that’s what you mean. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with nobody you care about, so you can relax.”
“Gray?” the woman beside him murmured. “What’s the matter?”
That was what he was trying to figure out. He reached back, smoothed his hand over her warm skin. Telephone at his ear, he got to his feet and walked, naked, from the bedroom.
“What’s that supposed to mean? That there’s nothing wrong with anybody I care about?”
“It’s jes’ a statement, boy. No need to try and parse it.” There was a brief pause. “I guess you’re wonderin’ why I’m callin’ so late.”
“You guessed right,” Gray said dryly.
“What time is it there, anyways? Midnight?”
“It’s almost two. What’s up, Jonas?”
There was another silence. “I just, uh, I just thought…I thought that we ain’t seen you in these parts for a while.”
Jesus, Gray thought, his uncle had finally gone senile. “No,” he said carefully, “you haven’t.”
“Not since Samantha married that Dee-mee-tree-ose guy,” Jonas said, turning the Greek name of his stepdaughter’s husband into pure Texas.
Forget senile. The old man still had a mind like a steel trap. “So?”
“So…” More silence, then the sound of Jonas clearing his throat. “So, I wondered if you might be in the mood to pop down for a visit.”
“Let me get this straight,” Gray said carefully. “You phoned in the middle of the night to invite me to Espada?”
The old man chuckled. “You don’t buy that, huh?”
“No.” Gray walked through his dark apartment to the kitchen, tucked the phone against his shoulder and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips. “Hell, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you really think I would?”
“That’s what I like about you, boy. You ain’t like some people. You don’t believe in treatin’ me like I was God.”
Gray laughed. What his uncle meant was that he didn’t like the old man and he’d never pretended otherwise. He’d never toadied up to the Baron money the way his father did. Jonas whistled; Leighton came running. It had always been like that, all the years Gray was growing up. Sometimes he’d been hard-pressed to know which of the men he despised more, his father for sucking up or Jonas for wallowing in the pleasure of it. After a while, he hadn’t bothered giving it much thought. All that mattered was that he hadn’t done the same thing. He’d thumbed his nose at both of them and at a system that should have died out in the middle ages, and made his own way in the world.
“No,” he said bluntly, “I don’t.” He put the bottle on the counter and made his way back toward the bedroom. “Look, Jonas, let’s cut the crap, okay? It’s the middle of the night. This is the first time you’ve ever phoned me. Come to think of it, this might just be the first time you’ve said more than three words in a row to me.”
“Or you to me, boy.”
“Absolutely. So, why would you expect me to buy into the idea that you called to invite me down for the weekend? Get to the bottom line. What’s the deal?”
Another of those pauses hummed over the phone. Gray could hear the rasp of the old man’s breath.
“You’re some kinda hotshot lawyer up there in New York, ain’t you?”
Was he? He was a partner in a prestigious firm, but did hotshot lawyers spend their days putting the scum of the earth back on the streets?
“I’m a lawyer, licensed to practice in the state of New York,” Gray said brusquely.
“Well, I got a legal matter needs tendin’.”
“A legal matter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why come to me? For starters, I’m not licensed to practice in Texas.”
“Don’t need you to practice. Maybe I should have said what I need is legal advice.”
“You have people to give it to you. Your son, for one.”
“Travis is a lawyer, all right. But he lives in California.”
“Yeah, and as we both just agreed, I live in New York.”
“I don’t want to involve Travis in this.”
Did the old man know the effect that remark would have? Gray squelched the sudden rush of curiosity that shot through him.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve probably got a powerhouse law firm on retainer in Austin.”
“Damned right.” A touch of pride crept into his uncle’s voice. “The best.”
“Exactly. Whatever legal advice you need, you’d be better off turning to them than to—”
“This here’s a private matter. I want you to handle it, not my son or a passel of lawyers who got no more interest in the Baron name than when they see it on checks.”
Another little flare of curiosity went through his blood but Gray ignored it. “That’s very flattering,” he said politely, “but—”
“Bull patties,” Jonas said curtly. “I ain’t tryin’ to flatter you, an’ you wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn if I was.”
Gray sat down on the edge of the bed. The old man was good at this. He played people like a virtuoso played a Stradivarius, but Gray wasn’t going to let himself be drawn in.
“You’re right,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Look, whatever this is about, I’m not interested. I’m in the middle of a case.”
“You could fly down in the mornin’, fly back by nightfall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Besides—”
“Besides, you’d sooner work for a no-account horse thief than me.”
The only good thing about Jonas was that he was always direct. Gray often thought it was the single quality he and his uncle had in common.
“Yeah.” He smiled into the darkness. “That about sums it up.”
“You know, boy, it ain’t my fault your father’s spent his life suckin’ up to my money.”
Gray rose to his feet. “It’s late,” he said coldly, “and I’ve had a long day. Good night, Jonas.”
“Wait!” The old man huffed audibly. “I need your help.”
Jonas Baron needed help? His help? Gray paused with his finger on the disconnect button. “In what way?”
“You fly down to Espada and I’ll explain.”
“I have no intention of flying down to Espada. Tell me the problem now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this! You get me up in the middle of the night, you mutter some crap about legal advice, and I’m supposed to drop everything and head for Texas?”
“Yes,” the old man said sharply, and Gray suddenly realized his uncle’s just-folks accent had disappeared. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
“Here’s a news flash for you, Uncle. I’ve never done what I was supposed to do and I’m not going to start now.”
“You might find this interesting.”
“I doubt it.”
“Gray.” Another exhalation of breath, this one slightly ragged. “I’m an old man.”
Ah, hell. Gray sat down again. “Look,” he said, “it’s true, you and I never really got along, but—”
“We’d have gotten along fine if we hadn’t based our judgment of each other on your father.”
Gray laughed. Definitely, direct and to the point. And maybe even dead-on correct. “I guess that’s possible. But we did, and it’s too late to go back and change things.” His voice softened. “Jonas, I wish I could help you. But I really am in the middle of a case, and—”
“I’m getting old, boy. Real old.” Jonas cleared his throat. “And—and I did something, a long time ago, that I need to atone for, before my time comes.”
“Hell, I’m no clergyman.”
“Dammit, are you listening to me? I don’t want some candy-assed preacher to hear me confess my sins. What I need is a man I can trust.”
“And you think that’s me? Why? You and I hardly know each other.”
“There’s some of my blood in your veins, boy, even if you wish there wasn’t. My brother was your grandfather.”
Gray pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Jonas. Listen, if you need advice, I can recommend someone. One of my partners clerked for a Federal judge—”
“So did you.”
That the old man would know so much about him took him by surprise. Still, he didn’t want to get drawn into this, whatever “this” might be. Over the years, he’d kept his distance from his father, from his uncle, from Texas. He went back for weddings and big family parties but only because he liked his cousins. Other than that, he’d never felt part of the Baron clan, never wanted to be part of it.
“Graham?”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“I’m tellin’ you again, boy. I need your help.”
“And I’m telling you, Uncle. I can’t give it.”
The old man’s patience slipped. “Damnation,” he’d roared, “you fly down here and I swear, it’ll take less time to tell you my problem than it’s takin’ you to tell me you ain’t interested in hearin’ it!”
Gray had known that was probably the truth. Besides, he couldn’t quite repress that unwanted curiosity. After another few minutes he’d said okay, he’d take the first flight out of La Guardia in the morning.
“Good,” his uncle had said briskly. “You’re on TransAmerica flight 1157, leavin’ at 6:05 in the a.m.”
The phone had gone dead and Gray knew he’d been had. He’d cursed, then laughed, finally climbed back into bed and when the woman in it rolled into his arms he’d made love to her. But part of him had remained at a distance while he’d tried to come up with a reason his uncle would go to such lengths to arrange for this command performance. At four-thirty, he’d risen from the bed, showered, dressed, left a note for his still-sleeping lover asking her to please let herself out and that he’d phone her in a day or two. Then he’d taken a taxi to the airport.
Yes indeed, he thought, as the Jeep pulled through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Espada, curiosity killed the cat—but he was, just as Jonas said, a hotshot New York attorney, too smart to be drawn into anything against his will. He’d hear his uncle’s story, offer some legal mumbo jumbo to soothe whatever twinge of conscience could plague a man at the end of such a long, powerful life and be back in New York by suppertime.
For all he knew, this little break in routine might just clear his head, make him feel better about the way he earned his living, twisting Justice’s arm just enough to keep his next rich client from serving a stretch in prison.
The Jeep came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Gray nodded to Abel, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the house. When he was a kid, it had reminded him of Tara. It still did, he thought, and he was smiling when his uncle’s wife opened the door. Gray was taken aback. He hadn’t given it any thought but now that he did, he was surprised to see Marta, considering how secretive Jonas had made all this sound.
“Graham,” his stepaunt said, “how good of you to come.” Smiling, she held out her arms and hugged him. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked as if she were planning to lunch on Madison Avenue and he thought, as always, how surprising it was that such a woman would be happy in this setting. He liked her; he always had. Of all the wives the old man had gone through, Marta was the best.
“Marta.” He kissed her cheek, put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re as gorgeous as ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, laughing. She linked her arm through his, shut the door on the hot breath of late spring and drew him into the elegant foyer. “I’m so pleased you decided to accept Jonas’s invitation.”
The old man’s summons had been about as much an invitation as the Spanish Inquisition would have extended to heretics, but Gray kept the thought to himself.
“My pleasure,” he said politely. “How have you been?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” Her eyes clouded. “Except Jonas, of course.”
Gray looked at her. “He’s not well?”
“No. Not at all. Didn’t he tell you?” She sighed and shook her head. “Of course he didn’t. He seems to think he can pretend the years aren’t finally catching up with him. And that his doctors haven’t diagnosed—”
“Diagnosed what?”
Marta dropped his arm and folded her hands together at her waist. “Leukemia,” she said softly. “That’s the reason for all of this.”
Hell. It was like sitting in at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Gray knew the characters but he didn’t understand the dialogue. “All of what?” he said carefully.
“You know. The talk about what will happen after—after he’s gone. Whether he’s divided his assets properly. Whether he’s left each child what that child truly wants.” She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “I’m sure your chat is going to ease his mind. I mean, yes, certainly, Jonas has an excellent attorney. And he’s given a great deal of thought to his will, but he seems to feel that discussing some of the specifics with you, as a member of the family, will help him be sure he’s taken care of everything.”
Gray’s eyebrows rose. Was that what this was all about? Was he here to read the old man’s will over his shoulder and offer advice on who should get what? He couldn’t imagine any of Jonas’s offspring quarreling over the disposition of the estate.
“Well,” he said cautiously, “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Marta cleared her throat. “Now,” she said briskly, “what can I get you?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Gray glanced at his watch. “If you’d just tell Jonas that I’m here…”
“How about some coffee? Or something cold. Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours. You’ll join us, of course.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, although he knew that he wouldn’t. “There’s a two o’clock flight back to New York. If I can, I’d like to be on it.”
“Ah. I’ll be disappointed, but I understand. Well then, I’ll have Carmen bring something for you to nibble on. Some of her pecan shortbread, and some lemonade. How’s that sound?”
“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Don’t be silly.” They paused at the closed library door. Marta turned to him and smiled, her eyes glittering with what he knew were unshed tears. “It’s just so kind of you to do this for Jonas. Really, it’s very generous.”
Gray almost told her that kindness had nothing to do with it. Instead he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will. And Gray…try not to let him see your surprise at all the changes.” Her voice quavered. “Will you do that, please?”
He nodded, and she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to the door and he could almost see her pulling herself together.
“Jonas?” She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, then turned the brass handle. “Darling? Graham’s here.”
Marta stepped back and Gray entered the library. The door swung softly shut behind him and as he looked around, his first thought was that he didn’t know what she’d meant, warning him about changes. Everything was the same. He remembered when Marta had married his uncle. She’d redone the living room, the dining room, some of the rest of the big house, but this place—his uncle’s lair, was the way he thought of it—had not been touched.
There were the same sofas and chairs he recalled from childhood, the leather cushions slightly worn and burnished by time. There was the same mahogany sideboard, and the big desk with the conquistador’s sword that had given Espada its name mounted above it. The same draperies hung at the windows, the same old and beautifully faded silk carpet lay on the floor. And there was Jonas, seated in his favorite chair near the massive fireplace, a glass in his hand.
Nothing had changed at all…and then his uncle put down the glass and rose to his feet, and Gray caught his breath.
Jonas had shrunk. That was his first thought. The old man had gone from being six foot something to being five-nine or-ten…except, he hadn’t. It was just that he was hunched over, those once-massive shoulders rounded, that proud back bent.
“Graham.”
Jonas started across the room and Gray got his second shock. His uncle’s stride had always been a proclamation that he owned the world. Now, he shuffled. His booted feet slid across the carpet. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It was the sad, painful sound of age, and of a man who knew he was approaching the end of his life.
“Good to see you, boy.”
Gray gave himself a mental shake and met his uncle in the center of the room. They clasped hands. Jonas’s grip was still surprisingly strong but his fingers felt bony and cold. For the first time in his life, Gray felt a twinge of pity for him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle,” he said.
Jonas nodded toward a pair of chairs. “Have a seat. You want somethin’? I can ring and ask Carmen to bring some coffee.”
“No, thank you. I had enough coffee on the plane to float a ship.”
“Good. I never did trust a man who’d sip coffee when he could be sippin’ whiskey instead.” The old man grinned. “Or ain’t you a bourbon man, nephew? I can’t seem to recall.”
Gray smiled. Jonas recalled, all right. It was a standing joke that nobody would ever join the old man in a glass of the whiskey he favored. His sons preferred wine, beer and ale. Gray’s preference was for single-malt scotch, but the memory of those cold fingers pressing against his made him reconsider.
“I’m not, usually,” he said. “But I think some bourbon might be fine right about now.”
Jonas nodded and shuffled to the sideboard. Gray saw his hands tremble as he opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and warned himself not to let the signs of illness and age influence him. He’d come prepared to listen to whatever his uncle wanted to tell him, then to decline involvement and head home, and that was still what he intended to do. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into sorting out some past mistake, real or imagined…unless Marta was right, and he was here to advise Jonas on his will. Hell, he wouldn’t do that, either. He wanted no part in any of this.
“Here we are,” Jonas said.
Gray took the glass, touched it to his uncle’s and sipped the whiskey. There was more ceremony to get through, this time involving a box of Cuban cigars, which he refused. He waited while the old man bit the tip off one, spat it into the fireplace and lit up.
“Ain’t supposed to drink or smoke, but what the hell’s the difference? I ain’t long for this world anyways.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.
A knock sounded at the door. Jonas opened it, took a quick look at the tray in his housekeeper’s hands and waved her out.
“Lemonade,” he said, his lip curling with disgust, “and cake. You’d think there was a couple of kids in this here room.” He slammed the door and looked at Gray. “Where was I?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“That ain’t what I was saying. I was tellin’ you there’s not much point in me avoidin’ a good shot of whiskey and a fine cigar.” Jonas eased into a chair, motioned to the other one. “But you’re right, I do have some talkin’ to do. I suppose Marta told you I’m dyin’?”
“Uh, well, uh, she said—”
“Come on,” Jonas said impatiently, “don’t play games! There’s just so much time a man has got, and I’ve used up most of mine. Remember what I said last night? That I liked the way you shoot straight? Don’t disappoint me now, boy. I’m dyin’. That’s all there is to it. And you know what? Dyin’s okay. I lived a long, full life.” He smiled, took a puff on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Had me five fine wives, four strong sons, built me this ranch and had me enough good times for a dozen men.” The smile faded and he sat forward. “But the closer I come to the end, the more I’ve been thinkin’ that not all them good times was exactly good, if you catch my drift.”
What was the old man getting at? A confession? A cleansing of the soul? Gray cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, all of us do things we’re not proud of, from time to time. I mean—”
“Damnation, boy, get that panicked look off your face.” Jonas scowled darkly. “I told you, If I wanted a pulpit pansy I’d have sent for one. I ain’t about to drop a bunch of regrets in your lap and ask for absolution.” He paused, took a long breath, then got to his feet. Slowly he walked to his desk and picked up a paperweight. “You ever notice this, Graham?”
Gray rose and followed his uncle to the desk. Jonas held out the paperweight. Gray took it from him and, as he hefted it, he realized it wasn’t a paperweight at all. It was a chunk of rock, pitted, rough and heavy, mottled with snaky streaks of what he figured was some kind of mineral deposit.
“No,” he said slowly, “I guess I never did. What is it? Granite?”
The old man chuckled. “Hold it to the light.”
Gray moved to the window and lifted the rock toward the glass. A beam of sunshine struck it, turning the mineral streaks into dazzling ribbons of bright yellow.
“Gold?” Gray said, looking at his uncle. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what it is, all right. Gold ore.” Jonas took the rock from Gray’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Took it from a mine in Venezuela, more’n half a century ago.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a gold miner,” Gray said, with a little smile. The old man was right. He had, indeed, led a long and interesting life.
“I been a lot of things.” Jonas opened his fist, looked at the rock, then put it down. “I was a young man back then. Already made me a pile of money in longhorns and some other things nobody else thought would pay off so when my pal, Ben Lincoln, asked me to go fifty-fifty on a mine in South America, I figured why not give it a try? The mine was s’posed to be played out but Ben had reason to believe otherwise.”
He paused for a long moment and stared blindly out the window. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the old man saw something out there that nobody else could see.
“So we took ourselves down to Venezuela and then up the Orinoco to this mine in the jungle somebody had worked an’ then abandoned.”
He paused again, this time for so long that Gray moved toward him. “Uncle?” he said softly.
Jonas looked at him. “Yeah. I’m just thinkin’ back.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said briskly, “turned out Ben was mistaken. We found some gold, but not enough. So Ben and me, we decided to end the partnership.”
Gray took another look at the rock. It was an interesting story, but what did it have to do with him? Jonas was still talking, something about him and Ben Lincoln, how they’d gone their separate ways and he’d come back to build Espada. Gray shot a surreptitious glance at his watch. An hour had gone by. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t make that flight to New York.
“Dammit, boy, how about payin’ some attention here?”
Gray’s head came up. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You know,” he said, as carefully as he could, “I don’t like being called `boy.’ And I have been paying attention. I’m here, aren’t I, when I should be meeting with a client—and I still don’t know why in hell I came. What do you want, Jonas?”
“I’m getting to that.” The old man hesitated. “Ben died a long time back. A few months ago, I heard—I heard he had some kin. A granddaughter.”
“And? What does any of this have to do with me?”
The old man’s eyes met his. “I’ve owed a debt to Ben all these years, and I’m a man always pays his debts.”
Gray’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late to worry about repaying this one, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t never too late to do the right thing, Graham. You live as long as me, you might just figure that out for yourself.”
“What kind of debt?”
“A debt, dammit,” Jonas said irritably. “What’s the difference?”
Things were starting to make sense. His uncle owed money to a man who was dead. For all he knew, he’d cheated Ben Lincoln out of some gold. Maybe he’d gone back later and found the mother lode. Maybe he’d done it without ever telling Ben Lincoln. Or maybe he’d palmed a couple of aces when they played cards. Knowing Jonas, anything was possible.
Now, with death looming ahead, he was having an attack of conscience. He wanted to make things right and he didn’t want his sons or even his own lawyer to know about it for fear it would tarnish his image. Gray thought of telling him that there wasn’t anything that could do more damage to an image like his, but what would be the point? The old man really didn’t have much time left. It wouldn’t hurt to do this simple thing for him.
“Okay,” he said. He sat down again, picked up his briefcase and snapped it open. “You tell me the granddaughter’s name, give me her address, and—”
“Don’t know her address.”
Gray sighed. “That’s all right. Her name will probably be enough. I’ve got a couple of private investigators I use all the time. They’ll find her.”
“Don’t know her name, neither.”
“You don’t know her name?” Gray repeated, trying to sound patient.
“Jes’ said that, didn’t I?”
“Okay. Okay, then, just tell me whatever you can about this Ben Lincoln. Where he was from. Where he went after you and he broke up the partnership. Anything you remember.”
“Here.” Jonas plucked a manila envelope from the top of his desk. “Figured you’d want whatever information I got. Wrote it all down for you.”
Gray took the envelope and placed it in his briefcase. “Fine.” He uncapped a pen, put a yellow legal pad on his knees. “These guys I know will find Lincoln’s granddaughter.”
Jonas nodded. “I was counting on that.”
“And how do you want to handle this? After they’ve found her, do you want to mail her a check? Or do you want it hand-delivered?”
“A check?”
“Yes,” Gray said, trying to disguise his impatience. “For his granddaughter. You want to keep it impersonal, or—”
“I don’t intend to give the girl a check. If she’s Ben’s offspring, if she’s a decent woman, I’ll want to meet her. Write her into my will.”
Gray looked up. Jonas was standing over him, one bony hand curled around the back of a chair. His eyes were flat, his mouth a grim line, but a dark blue vein throbbed in his papery temple. Something was going on here, something more than the old man had told him, but what?
“You want to write her into your will?”
“You deaf, counselor? How come I have to repeat everything I say?”
Oh, yeah. Definitely something was going on. There was the look on Jonas’s face. The sudden ringing tone to his voice. More to the point, the on-again, off-again accent had just taken a hike, and that was always meaningful.
Gray capped the pen, placed it and the legal pad inside the briefcase and stood up. He’d been as tall as Jonas for years; now, he towered over him. It was a small but decided advantage, and wasn’t that a crazy thing to think?
“And how will you be sure she’s a decent woman, Uncle?”
Jonas’s mouth curved at the corners. “I’ll rely on your reports, nephew. What else would I do?”
“Now, wait just a minute. I’m willing to use one of my investigators to locate this woman, but if you intend to base your decision on the findings of a private detective…forget it. I won’t take responsibility for somebody else’s opinion of an unknown woman’s moral fiber—assuming the investigator finds her at all.”
“He’ll find her. You just told me he would.”
Hell. Gray ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll put the best man I can think of on the case.”
“I’ve already done that, Graham. I’ve put you on it.” Jonas seemed to stand a little taller. “Your investigator will do the footwork.” He grinned, and suddenly he didn’t look quite so frail and old. “Wouldn’t expect somethin’ so down and dirty of you, boy. But you’re the one who’s gonna verify what the man says. You’ll take a good, hard look at the lady once she’s found. Observe her. Talk to her, check her out every which way. An’ when you know what she’s really like, why then, nephew, you’ll report back to me and tell me everythin’ I need to know.” Jonas strolled to his chair, sat down and picked up his tumbler of bourbon. “Way I figure it, the whole thing shouldn’t take you no more’n a couple of weeks.”
“Jonas.” Gray spoke gently. “Look, I’d like to help you. But surely you understand that I have a law practice. Clients. I have obligations, and I can’t just—”
“You got an obligation to me, boy. Maybe it’s time you knew that.”
Gray narrowed his eyes. There was an ominous sound to the words. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jonas got up, walked to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “You never did get along with your old man, did you? Never did cotton to the idea of sittin’ around, watchin’ him grovel to me.” He sipped the bourbon, smiled over the rim of the tumbler. “You ever stop to think how nice it was, gettin’ away from here when you was, what, eighteen? When you went away to that there fancy college in New Hampshire?”
“I was seventeen,” Gray said coldly. “And what does that have to do with this conversation?”
“An’ how ‘bout that law dee-ploma?” Jonas sighed. “The way I hear it, ain’t ever’body can afford a Yale law dee-gree.”
The hair on the nape of Gray’s neck was rising again. “I had full scholarships to both Dartmouth and Yale.”
Jonas chuckled. “Oh my, yes. You was a smart kid, Graham. You won them scholarships, fair and square.” His smile faded. “‘Course, you never did give too much thought as to who funded those scholarships, did you?”
Gray stared at his uncle. He felt as if the floor were dropping from under his feet. “You?” he said hoarsely. “You funded them?”
“And the pocket money that went along with them.” The old man plucked what remained of his cigar from a heavy glass ashtray and stuck it between his teeth. “Your father did the right thing, son. He come to me, said you was smart and he couldn’t afford to do right by you.”
That his father had once said something good about him didn’t seem to matter half as much as learning that he’d gotten where he was today—wherever in hell that might be—courtesy of the very man he’d grown up despising. Gray could feel a cold, hard knot forming in his gut.
“And now,” he said softly, “you’re calling in your markers.”
His uncle shrugged. “Only if you make it seem that way.”
Gray laughed. “Only if I make it seem…? You are some piece of work, Jonas, you know that? You’re blackmailing me into taking God only knows how much time out of my life so you can soothe your conscience before you die, and you say it’s payback time only if I make it seem that way?” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I don’t suppose you’d settle for me writing out a check for whatever I owe you… No,” he said grimly, when Jonas chuckled, “no, I guess not.” Anger flooded through him and he balled his hands into fists, jammed his fists into his pockets before he did something he knew he’d regret. “I’ve got news for you, old man. You don’t need to be concerned with your conscience because the fact is, you never had one.”
Jonas took the cigar from his mouth and set it back into the ashtray. “Yes,” he said softly, “I do, even if it seems to be catching up years too late.” He walked toward Gray, his gaze locked to the younger man’s, his hand outstretched. “You do this, we’ll call things even.”
Gray held his uncle’s eyes for a long minute. Then he looked pointedly at the outstretched hand, ignored it and reached, instead, for his briefcase.
“You’re damned right we will,” he said, and he pulled open the door and marched down the hall, hating Jonas, hating himself, but most of all hating his own father, a man he’d sworn he’d never emulate, because here he was, dancing to a tune Jonas Baron played and stuck with dancing straight to the very last note.
CHAPTER TWO (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
GRAY boarded the flight to New York still tight-lipped with rage.
If anybody had asked him how he’d gotten where he was today, a partner in one of New York’s top law firms at such a relatively young age, he’d have said he’d done it all on his own. Good grades in college had led to his acceptance at Yale Law. A straight A average there and a stint writing for the Law Review had won him a clerkship with a Federal judge and then interviews at a number of important firms. He’d picked the one where he’d figured he’d have a straight shot at the top after putting in the requisite seventy-five hours a week of grunt work for a couple of years. He’d been right. Those years got him noticed; he landed a partnership even sooner than he expected without having to curry favors from anybody. Watching his father go through life as a suck-up had convinced him he’d sooner end up flipping burgers than repeat Leighton’s pattern.
Now it looked as if he’d been blissfully living a lie, that his successes were all traceable to Jonas’s largesse. Okay. Maybe that was an overstatement. He’d made it to where he was on his own, but his uncle’s money was the reason he’d been able to get his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was just where he’d sworn he’d never be, beholden to the old man, and now Jonas was calling in the debt.
“Sir?”
But facts were facts. You couldn’t change them; you could only use them to serve your client’s best interests. That was one of the things he’d learned in law school. First, make a dispassionate assessment of a case. Then use your knowledge to get the outcome you wanted. Well, he was his own client right now, and what would serve his interests was to do what had to be done so he could get on with his own life.
Truth was, he wouldn’t have to spend much time dealing with Jonas’s situation. He had all sorts of contacts, including private investigators whose fields of expertise involved tracking people even if the trail was old and cold. Actually he didn’t have to do much of anything personally except give Jonas’s information to one of those people, then sit back and wait for the answers to drop in his lap.
Then, if—and it was a huge “if,” considering that Jonas didn’t even know if this Ben Lincoln actually had a granddaughter—if there was such a woman, and if a P.I. could find her, Gray would meet her, spend ten minutes in conversation before contacting his uncle.
“Mr. Baron?”
What the old man did with his money was none of his business. All he wanted was to erase this debt. Hell had to be going through life, knowing you had an obligation to Jonas Baron.
“Mr. Baron. Sir, would you like to see the lunch menu?”
Gray looked up. The flight attendant, smiling politely, leaned toward him. For the first time since he’d stormed out of his uncle’s library, Gray felt good enough to smile back.
“Sure,” he said, “why not?”
Why not, indeed? A couple of days, maybe a week at the most, and he’d be able to tell Jonas to go scratch.
“Here’s the report on the woman you wanted to find,” he’d say. “And now, uncle, for all I give a damn, you can go straight to hell.”
It was such a welcome thought that he went right on smiling, even after the flight attendant placed the airline’s version of lunch in front of him.
* * *
The next morning Gray phoned Jack Ballard, a P.I. who’d done some good work for him in the past.
“I can come by on Monday,” Ballard said.
Gray said it would be better if he could come by right away. Ballard sighed, said he’d be there in about an hour. When he showed up, the men went through a couple of minutes of inconsequential talk before getting down to business. Gray said he’d been asked to do a favor for a client. He told Ballard only as much of the story as necessary, mostly that he wanted him to locate a woman whose only link to his client was through a relationship half a century old, and shoved Jonas’s still-sealed manila envelope across the desk.
Ballard lifted an eyebrow as he looked at it. “You didn’t open this to see what’s in it?”
Gray shrugged his shoulders. “You’re the detective. Not me.”
Ballard grinned, ripped the envelope open and peered inside. “Well, it looks as if there wasn’t all that much to see.”
Three pieces of paper fluttered onto the surface of Gray’s always-neat desk. One bore notes in what Gray recognized as Jonas’s hand. The other two were black-and-white photographs, the edges torn and yellowed. Ballard reached for the notes; Gray scooped up the pictures and looked at them.
The first was of two men dressed in suits, though neither man looked as if he belonged in one. They stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders and grinned into the camera. The men were in their thirties or early forties, strong and young. Curious, he turned the photo over. Ben and Jonas, Venezuela 1950. The words were scrawled across the back of the picture, again in his uncle’s handwriting.
Gray took another look at the photo.
Yeah, he could see it now. One of the men was definitely Jonas. The mouth, the eyes, the grin…none of that had changed. It was just weird to see him so young. Somehow, though he’d always thought of his uncle as fit and powerful, he’d never imagined him as anything but old. The other man, Ben Lincoln, had lighter hair and sharper features. Except for that, Jonas and he seemed like duplicates, tall and handsome and broad-shouldered, looking into the camera through eyes that said they already owned the world.
The second photo was of a woman. Gray flipped the picture over. Nora Lincoln, someone had printed on the back. She stood in a grassy square, maybe in a park somewhere, hands planted on slender hips, chin elevated in a posture of what seemed defiance. She was a pretty woman or she would have been, if she’d unbent just a little. Her expression was hard to read. Were her eyes cool? They seemed to be. Her hair was long and light-colored. It looked windblown and maybe in need of taming, but another look at those eyes and Gray figured everything about her had probably needed taming.
Two powerful, tough-looking men in the prime of life. And a woman who looked as if she’d be a challenge to either of them. Gray felt a stir of interest. What did these people have to do with a sample of ore from a Venezuelan gold mine?
“Well,” Ballard said, “this sure isn’t much to go on.”
He handed the handwritten page of notes to Gray. Ben Lincoln, date of birth unknown, place of birth unknown, had been married to a woman named Nora sometime around 1950. They’d been divorced early in 1952 and Nora had given birth to a child she’d named Orianna in the summer of that year. Orianna had given birth to a baby girl, too, in 1976 or ‘77. The father was unknown. The child had probably been born somewhere in southern Utah or northern Arizona. That baby girl, if she existed, if all the other information was correct, Jonas had written, would be Ben Lincoln’s granddaughter. But, he’d added, there was no way to be sure. Ben Lincoln had died a long time ago. He’d heard that Nora and Orianna were dead, too.
Gray turned the page over. The reverse side was blank. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Ballard said, and grinned. “This one’s gonna cost a bundle. I’ll have to hire a bunch of guys to do the legwork. There’ll probably be a couple of dozen leads to check out and the odds are good they’ll all go nowhere long before I can find something usable.” He tapped a pencil against his teeth. “We’re talking six figures here.”
Gray tossed the paper on the desk, tilted back his chair and folded his hands over his flat belly. “That’s okay, Jack. Just do it and send me the bill.” He smiled tightly. “Don’t worry about the cost.”
Ballard laughed. “I never do.”
“Good. My client deserves to pay through the nose.”
The investigator chuckled as he scooped the photos and the single sheet of information into the manila envelope, then got to his feet.
“You disappoint me, Gray. Here I thought you defense attorneys were supposed to be protective of your clients.”
“Nobody needs to protect this one,” Gray said. He rose, too, and came around his desk. “As always, this is confidential, okay?”
Ballard clapped his hand to his heart. “Man, you wound me. Aren’t I always the soul of discretion?”
He was right. Investigators didn’t last long if they weren’t discreet but Ballard was even more circumspect than most. It was one of the reasons Gray employed him.
“Yes, you are.” Gray held out his hand. “What I meant was, if you should manage to find this woman, don’t talk to her. Don’t let her know you’re watching her. Just keep everything under your hat. I’m supposed to check the lady out myself. Client’s orders.”
“No problem.”
The men shook hands. “Truth is, though, I suspect you’re not going to come up with anything.”
“The odds are that you’re right, but you know me. I’ll put all the stuff I don’t find into a fifty-page report, fit the report into a shiny binder and your client will be impressed.”
Both men grinned. “Keep me posted,” Gray said, and Jack promised that he would.
* * *
Two weeks later, Ballard phoned late one morning.
“Got some stuff,” he said.
Gray suggested they meet for lunch at a small Italian place midway between their offices.
“So,” Gray said, after they’d ordered, “what do you have? Information? Or fifty pages of B.S. in a shiny binder?”
Jack chuckled. “Information, surprisingly enough. Not enough to fill fifty pages, but solid.”
“You found Lincoln’s granddaughter?”
“No, not yet. But I figured you’d want an update. I found the town where Orianna Lincoln lived and died, and some people who knew her.”
“Orianna Lincoln,” Gray said. “So, even though she was born after Ben and Nora were divorced, he acknowledged the child as his flesh and blood?”
“Careful, counselor.” Ballard sat back as their first courses were served. “You’re leaping to conclusions. All I know is that Nora Lincoln put Ben Lincoln’s name on Orianna’s birth certificate.” He stabbed a grape tomato, lifted it to his mouth and chewed vigorously. “Orianna was born in ‘52, same as your uncle said, in a little town in Colorado. Her mother—Nora—died in an auto accident not long afterward. Orianna was bounced from foster home to foster home, grew up into what you might expect.”
“Her father didn’t raise her?”
“Ben Lincoln? No. He lit out for Alaska in ‘53, died up there in a blizzard a few years later. The kid—”
“Orianna.”
“Right. She grew up, got herself into a little trouble. Nothing much, just some shoplifting, a little grass, a couple of prostitution convictions.”
“Sounds like a sweetheart.”
“Right. NCIC—the National Criminal Investigation Center—has her getting busted for petty crap all over the southwest. Eventually she ended up with some bozo in Fort Stockton, Texas. He walked out on her and the next record we have shows she set up housekeeping in a trailer park in a place called Queen City, up in the mountains in northern Arizona.”
“Alone?”
“Yup.” Ballard speared another tomato and grinned. “But that didn’t keep her from leading a full life, if you get my drift.” The detective took a sip of water, swallowed and leaned over the table. “The lady believed in an open door policy. One man in, another out, no stopping to take a breather in-between. No kids to slow her down until 1976, when something must have gone wrong with her planning. She gave birth to a girl she named Dawn.”
Gray raised his eyebrows. “Classy name.”
“Yeah, and I figure that was all that was classy in the kid’s life. Dawn lived in the trailer with mama until she was seventeen. Then she married a local name of…” Ballard reached into his breast pocket and took out a small leather notebook. “Name of Kitteridge. Harman Kitteridge.”
“In Queen City?”
“Yup, Queen City. Two traffic lights and half a dozen cheap bars. And local branches of every whacko political organization you ever heard of.” He grinned. “Plus some you’re lucky you haven’t.”
Gray put down his fork. “It sounds like heaven.”
“You got that right. Two days there, I was ready to grab a rifle and go looking for black helicopters. Kitteridge lives on the outskirts of town, on top of a mountain. He’s got a cabin up there. Apparently his grandpappy built it with his own hands.” Ballard put down his notebook and turned his attention to his salad. “You can almost hear the banjoes playing in the background.”
Gray nodded, picked up his fork and poked at his antipasto. Just what he needed, he thought glumly, a trip to the ass end of nowhere for a stimulating conversation with Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. If he’d thought about her at all during the last weeks, he’d imagined a more up-to-date version of that defiant, almost beautiful woman in the photo, but this conversation had put things in perspective. He could almost envision Dawn Kitteridge, country twang, lank hair, bare feet, gingham dress and all.
“Lucky Dawn,” he said, “she got to trade her trailer for a shack.”
“Yeah, she got herself a shack, and a hubby ten years older than she is.” Ballard paused as the waiter cleared away their appetizers and served their main courses. “But she got tired of both,” he said, tucking into his spaghetti carbonara. “She left Kitteridge and the mountain almost four years ago.”
Gray looked up from his pasta alla vongole. “She missed the trailer park?”
“If you mean, did she go back there, the answer’s no.”
“Damn,” Gray said with a little grin, “and here I was, happily anticipating a trip to a sophisticated metropolis called Queen City.”
“Well, actually, I don’t know where you’re going to be taking that trip to meet up with the little lady—that is still your intention, isn’t it? ‘Cause the thing is, she didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”
Gray put down his fork. He’d been telling himself this was all over, that he’d go to Arizona, spend an hour talking with Lincoln’s granddaughter, then fly to Espada and end his unwanted obligation to his uncle.
“Are you saying you don’t know where she is?”
“I’m saying I haven’t located her yet, but I will.”
“Damn.” Gray shoved his plate aside. All at once, he had no appetite. “How much longer will it take?”
Ballard shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. Four years is a long time and when the lady left, she seemed determined to cover her tracks.”
“Kitteridge doesn’t know where she went?”
“I didn’t talk to him. Not yet, anyway. He was out of town but from what I picked up from local chitchat, he has no idea what happened to her.” Ballard patted his lips with his napkin. “Hey, don’t look so sour. I promise, we’ll find her. I’ve got three men looking for her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gray sighed, sat back and rubbed his hand over his forehead. “I just don’t want this to drag on forever.”
“You said money wasn’t a problem.”
“It isn’t. Time is my concern. I want to get this done with.”
“Gray, my man, don’t I always deliver?”
It was true. Gray had no doubt that Jack would find Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. He just had to be patient.
“Yeah, you do. Look, put another couple of people on it, okay? Do whatever it takes to locate the lady.”
“Absolutely.”
“Meanwhile, what’s this Harlan Kitteridge like?”
“It’s Harman. I told you, I didn’t meet him, but I did some checking. He’s got some stuff on his record.”
“Such as?”
Ballard opened his notebook again. “Some DWIs. Two bar fights. He broke up a guy pretty bad in one of them but witnesses said it was self-defense so, you know, case closed. An assault on a woman he’d been living with. Beat her up and she called the cops but when it came to the courtroom, she said she’d hurt herself taking a tumble down the stairs and all she wanted was Harman out of the place.” Jack looked up. “Nothing once he married our girl. Dawn either swings a heavy bat or she reformed him.”
“Yes,” Gray said lightly. “They sound like a real nice couple.”
The bus boy cleared their places. The waiter stopped by. Gray ordered espresso; Ballard ordered a cappuccino and cheesecake.
“So,” Ballard said, “the next thing I’m going to do is fly on back to Queen City and have a chat with Mr. Kitteridge. He’s on his mountain again.”
“I thought you said he doesn’t know where his wife is.”
“I said that’s what the town says. Besides, even if he doesn’t, maybe he can give us some clues. Maybe she talked about wanting to see someplace special. Maybe she has friends in places outside Queen City.” The investigator peered at the slice of cake the waiter put in front of him, then dug into it. “At the very least, he can probably fill in some blank spaces while my guys look for her.”
“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”
“Trust me, Gray. It is reasonable. Just tell your client to keep his pants on, okay?”
Gray laughed. “I’m sure he’ll love the advice, Jack. Anything else?”
“Nope. Oh. Yeah, before I forget…” He patted one breast pocket and then the other. “Here,” he said, and held out a small white envelope.
“What’s this?” Gray opened the envelope. Inside were the photo of Jonas and Ben, and the one of Nora Lincoln. “Ah. The pictures. You don’t need them anymore?”
“Not really. Besides, I made copies. I figured your client might want these back.”
Gray nodded and pocketed the photos. “You’ve done fine, Jack. To be honest, I didn’t think we had a chance of coming up with anything, but you’ve managed to find the girl.”
“Not yet. I found where she lived and who she lived with.” Ballard took a sip of his cappuccino. “She’s still among the missing.”
“Among the…” Gray looked up. “You think something happened to her? That Kitteridge did something?”
“Hell, no. Jeez, you’ve been associating with lowlife too long. No, Gray. I just mean I haven’t located her yet. But I will.”
“Fine. Call me when you do. In fact, call me after you go to Queen City and speak with Harman Kitteridge. I have to admit, I’m curious.”
Ballard grinned. “Your wish is my command, counselor. Say, is this lunch on your client’s expense account?”
“Why?”
“You think I could have another slice of that cheesecake?”
* * *
That night, Gray phoned Jonas and gave him a brief update. When he finished, there was a long silence. Then his uncle cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, “the girl really exists.”
“Yeah. So it would seem. Do you still want her found?”
“Yes, of course. Find her, talk to her, see what she’s like…” Another silence. “This husband of hers. He doesn’t sound like anybody’s idea of Prince Charming.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“You’re gonna meet with him?”
“No,” Gray said coldly, “I am not. The investigator I hired will do that. There’s no reason for me to talk to the man.”
“You got a good way of seein’ inside people.”
Gray laughed. “Don’t try to con me, okay? If I did, I’d have figured out, years back, that the only way my father could have come up with money for my schooling was by begging it from you.”
“You know, boy,” Jonas said, his voice hardening, “maybe you ought to be grateful he did, otherwise what would you be doin’ right now? Not livin’ high on the hog in New York City, I bet.”
“I’ll call you when I know more,” Gray said, and hung up the phone.
Hours later, he gave up trying to sleep. The old man certainly had a way of getting to the heart of a thing. He’d grown up disliking Texas and despising his uncle, congratulated himself for getting free of both…and now it turned out he hadn’t actually escaped either one.
He went into the kitchen, switched on the light, took the pictures Jack Ballard had given him from the kitchen table and stared at the faces frozen in time.
There was more to this tale than his uncle admitted. Gray had suspected it. Now, he was sure of it. He’d been a lawyer long enough to sense when a client was omitting pieces of a story. Sometimes, you were happy to leave it like that. You wanted the truth, but you didn’t want to hear things that might keep you from doing the best possible job. Defending a man against a charge of murder was a lot easier when you believed he hadn’t actually committed it. There was no murder involved here but something dark and distant was gnawing at Jonas’s innards. And, like it or not, he was being drawn further and further into the situation.
He sat down at the table and stared at the picture of Jonas and Ben Lincoln. Was there a whisper of hostility hidden inside those smiles? And the picture of Nora Lincoln. He touched the tip of his finger to her face. Were her eyes cool, or were they infinitely sad? Maybe that chin wasn’t tilted in defiance but in self-defense.
“Dammit,” Gray said, and kicked back his chair. What did it matter? The story, whatever it was, dated back half a century. And it sure as hell didn’t involve him. He had better things to think about than a dead woman who might have a secret in her eyes and a granddaughter who had run away from a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
The case that had consumed his time for the past few months was winding down. Tomorrow, he’d present his closing argument to the jury. His client would walk free. Gray wasn’t foolish enough to think you could predict how a case would end but sometimes you could make a pretty shrewd guess. His client had been accused of felonious assault with intent to kill; he’d sworn that the witnesses had misidentified him. Gray hadn’t been concerned with the man’s guilt or innocence. That wasn’t his job. His duty was to convince the jury that the witnesses were wrong, that there was reasonable doubt that it was not his client who had committed the crime. Every instinct he had assured him that he’d done that.
He’d be free of the case in a few days. He’d thought about taking a break, getting away from the city and the stress of his job, maybe doing something different enough to get the juices flowing so he’d feel the way he once had about his work. He’d even had a talk with his travel agent, who had given him a stack of brochures about things that ranged from running the rapids in Alaska to mountain trekking in Nepal.
He’d been to Alaska. And there were mountains in northern Arizona.
He looked at the photo of Nora Lincoln. What would she think, if she knew her granddaughter had spent most of her life in a trailer park? That she’d married a man with an arrest history and then left him?
“Life sucks,” Gray said softly, “and then you die.”
He went into his study, flicked on the light, looked up Jack Ballard’s phone number in his address book and dialed it. Ballard answered on the second ring.
“It’s late,” Ballard said in a gravelly voice. “This better be good.”
“Jack, it’s Gray Baron. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but…” Gray cleared his throat. “You know that trip you were going to make to Arizona? The thing is, my client—well, I have a personal connection to him. And, as a sort of favor, I’ve decided to talk with Kitteridge myself. Uh-huh. I’m going to fly out there, probably within the next couple of days. No, no, I’m not pulling you off the case, Jack. Far from it. I want you to locate Dawn Kitteridge for me. Absolutely. Right. Yes, do it just the way I asked. Find her, but don’t approach her. You just tell me where the lady is and I’ll take it from there. Great. Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it.”
Gray hung up the phone and headed back to bed.
Definitely, he could use the change in routine. He was starting to get curious about where this was really going. Jonas might be dying but he still couldn’t quite accept him as a man bothered by a prickly conscience, especially when it involved something more than fifty years old. And then there was that look in Nora Lincoln’s eyes. Would he see it in her granddaughter’s eyes, too? Gray needed to find out, not for Jonas but for himself.
Three days later, with another acquittal in his files and the directions to Queen City in his pocket, Gray flew to Arizona.
CHAPTER THREE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
IF TEXAS was hot, Arizona was the gateway to hell.
Gray flew into Phoenix in early afternoon. He could have saved time by flying into Flagstaff but he decided that the extra half day it would take him to reach his destination was worth it. He’d get the chance to decompress after the rigors of the trial and to work on the excuse he’d thought of to explain to her husband why he was looking for Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.
He picked up his rental car and dumped his bag in the trunk. Desert heat was dry heat, people always said, as if without humidity a temperature of one hundred and six would be no problem. Gray was dressed for comfort in chinos and a white shirt with an open collar and rolled up sleeves but he still felt as if he was standing in front of an open furnace.
He set the AC on high and headed north on Highway 17.
After a while, the land opened up into true desert, broken only by occasional roads that seemed to arrow through the scrub and cactus toward the distant mountains. Eventually the highway began to climb. Pines towered overhead; patches of snow glistened on the higher ridges. Gray turned off the air-conditioning, put down the window and drew in deep breaths of cool, clean air.
The countryside was spectacular, and all that open space coupled with the scent of pine was soothing. He could almost feel his tension starting to drain away. Coming here to see Harman Kitteridge had been the right decision. He could satisfy his curiosity, ask some questions Jack couldn’t because there had been no reason to tell him he was looking into this for his uncle. He didn’t plan on telling Kitteridge, either. It was always best to play your cards close to your chest.
Gray took one hand off the wheel, dug in his pocket and took out the map his travel agent had faxed him. She’d booked him into a place called the Drop-On Inn for the night. That was the only place available in the vicinity of Queen City, she’d written, and he’d visualized how her elegant eyebrows must have lifted at the news that he was going to such a hole in the wall. She’d also included the names of a couple of resort hotels between Flagstaff and Queen City, along with a polite note saying he might prefer one of them to the Drop-On Inn.
Gray knew she was probably right but he figured it would be simpler to stay near Queen City for the night. With luck, he’d meet with Kitteridge in the morning, and how long could a conversation with the man possibly take? An hour? Two? After that, he might just check out some of those hotels his agent had mentioned. This was beautiful country, high, rugged and untouched. A little time off here could be just what he needed.
He turned on the radio, searched for a station that played the kind of cool jazz he liked and settled instead for some guy singing about a love gone wrong. A couple of songs later, he was humming along with the melody. Yessir, making this trip had been a fine idea.
The Drop-On Inn dimmed his enthusiasm only a little. The sign out front said Motel but it was just ten small rooms strung together like links of sausage. Still, the place was clean, his room had a TV that received two channels, and there was even a caf;aae next door. Gray and a trucker who apparently owned the eighteen-wheeler parked at the other end of the motel were the only customers. He ordered a steak that overflowed the plate and mashed potatoes floating in enough butter to make him feel guilty so he passed on dessert, had a cup of coffee, went back to his room and slept as well as a man could when his feet hung off the end of the mattress.
He awoke to sunshine but by the time he’d finished off a stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee at the caf;aae, a bank of charcoal clouds had rolled in. Clouds or not, he felt pretty good when he set off for Queen City. He’d definitely make a short vacation out of this trip. If there was a camping equipment store in Queen City, he’d stop there after he finished with Kitteridge, buy himself some boots and some simple gear, use one of the hotels his agent had recommended as a base and head into the mountains. Gray liked the isolation of hiking but he also liked hot tubs, soft beds and the company of beautiful women. A few days in the wilderness, followed by another few days in a luxury resort, would feel just fine.
He found the station that played country love songs again and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. It was hard to believe he’d wasted time the other night, sitting in his apartment, looking at a picture of a dead woman and speculating about what kind of life she’d have led, or what life she’d have wanted for her granddaughter.
The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as he passed a sign welcoming him to Queen City, population 3,400 and home of the Patriots Regional High School Championship Football Team. Jack Ballard had given him a phone number for Harman Kitteridge. Gray had laughed and jokingly expressed surprise that the cabin would have a phone and electricity. Now, slowing for the first of the two traffic lights Ballard had mentioned, he thought the same thing again. This time, he meant it.
To call this place a city was not just an overstatement, it was a pathetic dream.
Queen City had seen better times. At least half of the shops on Main Street were vacant. The only living creature in sight was a dog relieving himself on a teetering pile of boxes in front of a boarded-up store. If it was a comment on the town, Gray agreed with it. Even the mountains that ringed Queen City were depressing. Their colors were sullen and their looming presence made him feel claustrophobic.
He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.
Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Harman Kitteridge?”
“What’s it to you?”
So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.
“My name is Gray Baron.”
“I don’t want none.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”
“I’m not a salesman, mister—”
Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.
“Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”
“You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”
“It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”
“My what?”
“Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”
There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.
“I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”
“What do you want with my wife?”
“I’d like to talk with her.”
“So did that other guy, couple of weeks ago, folks tell me. Or are you gonna claim you and he don’t know about each other?”
Gray thought about playing dumb and decided it would only heighten Kitteridge’s mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”
“And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”
“I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”
“She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”
Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.
“Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”
“You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”
“No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”
“Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”
“What in hell for?”
“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”
“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”
Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.
“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”
“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”
“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”
Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”
“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.
Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.
Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.
“Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”
Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”
Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.
“That’s my name.”
He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.
Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.
“What’s this all about, Baron?”
“It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”
“What about it?”
“Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. “Where is she? I told you to bring her with you.”
Minutes passed. Kitteridge’s stare was filled with venom. Finally he drank some coffee, then put down his cup.
“She ain’t here.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Listen, man, my wife is out of town. You want to waste this whole trip?” Kitteridge grinned, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. “Or you want me to think you always hang around places like this diner and Queen City?”
Okay. Kitteridge wasn’t really stupid. Gray could only hope he was greedy, greedy enough to swallow the story he was about to tell him. It was one part truth, nine parts fantasy, and—he hoped—sufficient to get information without giving any.
“Well, I guess it won’t hurt if I fill you in on some of the details. This is about Ben Lincoln.”
“Who the hell is Ben Lincoln?”
Gray reminded himself that losing his temper and telling this asshole that he was an asshole would be counterproductive.
“Your wife’s grandfather,” he said calmly. “On her mother’s side.”
“What about her mother?” Kitteridge’s eyes narrowed. “Who you been talkin’ to?”
Definitely an asshole, but he needed him. Take it easy, Gray told himself, and just keep smiling.
“Nobody. I’m trying to give you some background, make sure you understand the importance of this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got that. Go on. What’s the deal?”
“Your wife’s grandfather left her something in his will.”
Gray could almost see the dollar signs light up in Kitteridge’s eyes. “Dawn’s got money comin’?”
“The inheritance isn’t much. Not by most standards. Look, I can’t actually discuss it with you, so if you’d just tell me where I can find your wife—”
Kitteridge shot out a hand and grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt. “Listen here, Mr. Lawyer, I’ve about had it with your games. How much is comin’ to her? I’m her husband. I got the right to know.”
Gray closed his hand around Harman’s wrist and pressed his thumb against a pulse point. He could see the shock in the other man’s face as he began exerting pressure. When he was a kid, he’d worked his father’s pathetic excuse of a ranch, branding cows, neutering bulls, breaking the few horses Jonas usually let Leighton buy for next to nothing each year. He’d played rugby at Princeton, soccer at Yale, and as soon as he found himself chafing at the sedentary boundaries imposed by his profession, he’d taken up handball, racquetball and Japanese aikido. His body was honed and hard, his grip strong and unyielding and he knew, with a little rush of satisfaction, that the prick seated across from him had not expected any of it.
“Let go of the shirt, Kitteridge,” he said softly. “Right now, or you won’t be able to use that hand for a month.”
Kitteridge stared at him through eyes flat with pain and rage. After a minute, he smiled. It made him look like a Halloween mask designed to scare the pants off kids who had seen one horror movie too many.
“Sure. No harm meant.”
Kitteridge dropped his hand to the table. Gray let him settle his shoulders back against the cracked vinyl of the banquette.
“Guess we got ourselves off to a poor start, Baron. It’s just that I don’t like somebody comin’ around, askin’ about my wife without me knowin’ what’s up.”
Gray nodded. He could still feel his blood pumping hot and fast through his veins but he was here for information and beating the stupid son of a bitch across from him to a pulp wasn’t the way to get it.
“Yeah. Okay. I understand, but you need to understand my position. I’m legally charged with seeing to it that your wife gets what’s coming to her.”
“Trust me, Baron. I want her to get what’s comin’ to her, too.”
Harman saw the lawyer’s eyes narrow. Stupid, he told himself, stupid, stupid. He had to watch what he said around this slick bastard. The guy wasn’t from around here. He was from a big city, Phoenix or L.A. or even someplace on the East Coast. He wasn’t as easy as he looked, either. He had a lazy smile, clean fingernails, a way of talking that made him sound as if he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he also had an iron grip and a hardness to him that had been a surprise. And what in hell was this talk about that bitch, Dawn, and some kind of inheritance?
He still had trouble saying Dawn’s name, even thinking it, without wanting to put his fist through the wall. Goddamn slut, taking off in the middle of the night, walking out on him as if she had the right to do whatever she wanted. He should have slapped her around more often. That would have kept her in line, same as it had done for her mama.
And all these damn fool questions about Dawn’s grandfather. She’d never talked about a grandfather. Hell, she hadn’t talked about her own mama much, never mind anybody else, and now, from out of nowhere, she had a grandpa who had left her money? Hot damn, that was something to think about. Some dead presidents would go a long way toward making up for what the bitch had done to him, leaving him with an empty bed, leaving him to cook and clean for himself, stealing his son even though he’d been able to see, even four years back, that the kid was going to grow up soft, like his mother.
Well, he’d have changed that. He’d still change it, when he found Dawn. And he would. He’d always intended to; he’d be damned if he’d let her think she could get away with walking out on him. But now, if there was money on the line, there was more reason than ever to find his sweet wife.
If she had money coming, it belonged to him. A man had the right to be king in his home. Dawn had never understood that but she would, once he got her back. He’d bring her home to the mountain, beat the crap out of her and the kid, too, until they both understood he was the one law in their lives.
He lifted his coffee cup, took a sip of the rapidly cooling liquid and did his best to conjure up a smile.
“Dawn’s going to be real upset when she finds out you was here and she wasn’t.”
Gray nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“‘Course, there ain’t no real problem. You probably got some papers for her to sign, right?”
Gray gave another nod, more noncommittal than the first.
“Well, you can leave ‘em with me. I’ll see to it she puts her name where she ought to and mails them to you.”
“Yeah. Well, I wish I could do that, Kitteridge, but the law…” Gray leaned forward and flashed a man-to-man smile. “As long as we’re being honest, I have to tell you that I talked with some people around town.”
Kitteridge’s eyes turned cold. “People ought to learn to keep their mouths shut.”
“They seem to think your wife left quite a while ago.”
“If she did, it ain’t nobody’s business but mine.”
“You’re wrong. It’s my business. I mean, this inheritance…” Gray sighed. “Well, that’s a pity.”
“I’m here,” Kitteridge said sharply. “And I’m her husband. Whatever’s comin’ to her should come to me. That’s only right.”
“I agree,” Gray said pleasantly, “but the law…”
The law, Harman thought. The goddamn law. What he ought to do was drag this son of a bitch attorney out of his seat, do it fast, before he knew what was happening, and beat the crap out of him—but that wouldn’t get him what he wanted. The question was, what would? The thing to do was calm down and think. What would soften up a hotshot lawyer? A little hearts and flowers, maybe. Yeah. A sad story, complete with violins. That might just do it.
“Okay,” Harman said. He wrapped his hands around his cup and looked down into its murky depths. “I’m gonna tell you the truth, Baron. I don’t talk about it much ‘cause it near to kills me to do it, but my wife run out and left me four years back.”
“Ah. That’s rough.”
“It is, for a fact.” Harman lifted wounded eyes, locked them on Gray’s. “She was everythin’ for me, you know? I loved her like I never loved another woman. But she weren’t no good. She catted around, paid no mind to her wifely obligations or to our son.”
That did it. He saw the lawyer’s eyes go dark.
“She had a child?” he said.
Harman pulled a sad face. “Oh, yeah. A little boy. Sweetest thing you can imagine, but she didn’t give no more thought to the kid than she did to me.”
“You mean, she didn’t take the boy with her when she left you?”
Harman didn’t even blink. “No.” Violins, sad stories and a leap to abandoned babies the lawyer had taken all by himself. Fine. Whatever would work. “You can see why I don’t talk about it much.”
Oh, and it was working. Baron was nodding in agreement, clearly thinking bad thoughts about a woman who had slept around and dumped her kid. Well, the sleeping around part was surely the truth, and there wasn’t a way in hell Baron would ever find out she’d taken the boy with her.
Harman took out his wallet. “See this?” He took out a dog-eared photo of a woman with a baby in her arms and pushed it across the table. “That’s what she left behind. That innocent babe. Boy’s seven now an’ there’s times he still wakes up in the middle of the night, cryin’ for his mama.”
It was the perfect touch. The lawyer was staring at the picture as if it was the Madonna and child.
“Yeah.” The attorney cleared his throat. “So, where is she? Where’d she go?”
“If I knew, don’t you think I’d have brought her back?” Harman’s mouth twisted. “Teach her a lesson for walkin’ out on me?” He saw the way Baron’s head came up. Dammit. He’d overplayed his hand. “I mean, I’d tell her how much she hurt me. How I still love her. How I miss her. How I ‘spect her to keep the promises she made when we was married, is what I’m saying.”
“The bottom line is that you don’t know where she is, do you, Kitteridge? That’s what I’m saying.”
Harman smiled slyly. “I don’t, no. But I bet a hotshot lawyer like you got ways to find her.”
“Maybe, but I’ll need your help.”
“Anythin’ I can do, you just ask.”
“You said she catted around. How about the names of some of the men she slept with?”
“Don’t actually got names. She was sneaky.”
“Well, how about places she’d been and liked, that she might have gone back to?”
“She never went nowhere. Not that I wouldn’t have taken her, if she’d been a good woman, but—”
“Places she talked about visiting,” Gray said impatiently. “Nothing? Come on, man. Think. Didn’t she ever look at a picture in a magazine or someplace on TV and say how much she’d like to go there?”
“If she spent time on such things, she was smart enough not to let me know. Wastin’ time makes the devil happy.”
Gray started to answer, thought better of it and, instead, took his wallet from his back pocket. Coming here had been pointless. He’d wasted two days and he didn’t know anything more about where to look for Dawn than when he’d started. The only thing he’d learned was that her husband was the shithead Ballard said he was, and that Dawn wasn’t much better. She’d slept around, run off, abandoned her child… So much for the lure of Nora Lincoln’s sad eyes and defiant chin, or for the fact that he’d thought he’d seen those same eyes, that same chin, in the photo Harman had shown him.
“Well, thanks for your time, Kitteridge.” Gray dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “I’ll give you my card. If you think of anything that might shed some light on your wife’s whereabouts…”
“Wait just a damn minute, Mr. Lawyer.”
Gray looked up. Kitteridge flashed a smile as phony as the wood graining in the plastic tabletop.
“I mean, you ain’t just gonna run off, are you? Now that I told you about my wife, surely you can tell me what her grandpa left her, right?” Harman looked around, then hunched his shoulders and bent over the table. “It’s only right and proper I should know. For the sake of my son, you understand?”
Gray had an answer ready but he made it look as if he didn’t. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s okay, all things considered.”
Harman licked his lips. “How much?”
“He didn’t leave her money.”
“He didn’t… Ah. I got it. He left her a house, right? What do you call it, real estate?”
Gray tried to look soulful. “No,” he said, “no real estate. Actually your wife’s grandfather died broke.” Was it a lie? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. But the answer would defuse Harman’s curiosity. That was what counted.
“Broke?” Harman’s eyes narrowed. “Give me a break, Baron. You want me to believe you come here to tell my wife her grandpa didn’t leave her nothin’?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you did. You just told me the old man died broke.”
“But he did leave her something. A music box.” That part had come to him just this morning. He thought it sounded pretty good.
Harman’s face was a blank. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I guess it had sentimental value to him. It’s a nice music box, actually. Walnut, with mother of pearl inlay and a revolving dancer on the—”
“You want me to think you come all the way here to tell my wife she inherited a music box?” Harman said in a soft, ominous voice. “I guess you think I’m pretty stupid.”
“I don’t have any opinion of you,” Gray said pleasantly, lying through his teeth as he got to his feet. “You’re right about one thing, though. Given a choice, I sure wouldn’t have come all the way here but, as my client’s representative, I’m obligated to fulfill his wishes. He stipulated that I was to locate his granddaughter and give her the box. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Kitteridge. I’d love to have told you your wife was sitting on a fortune. Unfortunately, she’s not.”
Harman wanted to lunge over the table and stomp the crap out of the smart-ass city attorney. Instead he curled his hands into fists in his lap. It was the only way he could manage to smile.
“Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it? And here I was, feelin’ good for my Dawn, thinkin’ she was comin’ into easy times. It just goes to show, you never do know, ain’t that right?” He stood up, put out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Baron. Good luck, findin’ my wife.”
“Yeah. Same to you.”
“You get any word, you’ll let me know, right? My boy and I sure do miss her.”
“I will.” Gray took a card from his wallet and handed it to Kitteridge. “I wonder… Could I have that photo?”
“Photo?”
“Of your wife and son. It might help me identify her, if I find her.”
Harman smiled. “I’d like to help you, but it’s the only picture I got to remind me of her. It’s very valuable to me, if you know what I mean.”
The lawyer wasn’t dumb. He dug a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and Harman handed over the photo.
“I can use the money to buy somethin’ nice for the boy,” he said somberly. “You take care now, Mr. Baron. These roads can be slippery in the rain.”
He waited until the door closed after the attorney. Then he sank down on the banquette.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Did the man really think he’d fallen for that lie about a music box, or that he’d bought him off with a hundred bucks? There was lots more to this story. Nobody, especially not a lawyer from—Harman glared at the card—from New York City, came all this distance to tell a woman her grandpa had left her a wind-up toy.
Dawn had come into money, and probably one hell of a lot of it.
Harman got to his feet, walked to the counter and slid onto a stool. “Gimme two eggs,” he said to the waitress, “over easy. Bacon. Flapjacks.” He leaned toward her. “And more coffee, only it better not be this crap from the bottom of the pot, you understand?”
The girl damn near clicked her heels, which was just as it should be. The bible said it best. A woman was meant to obey. Wives, especially. And what a wife possessed belonged to her husband. Her body. Her spawn. All her earthly possessions.
Harman scowled as the waitress put a cup in front of him.
Dawn was coming into an inheritance, and it was only right and proper he was there to take care of it for her, and to take care of the boy, too, see he was raised up proper. It was time to find the bitch and put her four years of loose living at an end.
* * *
Outside, in the parking lot, Gray got behind the wheel of the rental car and drove a couple of miles north before he pulled onto the shoulder of the road, took out his cell phone and dialed Jack Ballard.
“Jack? Gray Baron here. I just met with Harman Kitteridge. Oh, yeah. He’s just what his rap sheet suggests. Mean. And stupid as the day is long, except when he thinks he smells money. Nope. He hasn’t a clue as to where Dawn is. Trust me, Jack. I had him salivating. If he knew, he’d have—You did?” Gray smiled and gave the steering wheel a light tap with his fist. “Las Vegas, huh? Terrific. Too bad you didn’t call me. I’d have been able to skip my scintillating meeting with Kitter—Oh. Did you? Well, I was in a diner at the ass end of nowhere, which is probably why your call wouldn’t go through. In fact, I’m losing you now. Jack? Jack…”
The line went dead. Gray put the phone into his pocket, felt something papery and took out the photo of Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. She didn’t look much like a woman who would walk out on a man and a child, but that only went to show you how misleading a picture could be. He had a photo of his own mother tucked away at the bottom of a drawer. He’d found it years ago, when he was ten or eleven, and she hadn’t looked like a woman who would have done those things, either…but she had.
Gray checked his mirror, did a U-turn, sped straight through Queen City and headed south, to Flagstaff and the airport. Forget staying on for a few days. Ballard had found the woman. He’d fly home, put things on hold for a week, then fly to Vegas and check out Dawn Kitteridge, though it wouldn’t take much checking before he’d know what to tell Jonas. How much doubt could there be as to the morals of a woman who slept around and then deserted her son, and never mind the way she looked in that photo.
He knew all about women like that. His own mother had slept her way through Brazos Springs before she’d walked away, left him behind and never once looked back.
Gray stepped down hard on the gas. Soon, very soon, he’d be able to put this entire incident behind him and get on with his own life.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
Las Vegas, Nevada
DAWN’S alarm was set for six but when she opened her eyes, the bright green numbers on the clock’s face read 5:03.
Her heart pounded as she sat up and looked around her tiny bedroom. What had awakened her? Footsteps? A voice? The sound of someone outside the window? She held her breath and listened but she couldn’t hear anything. Nothing but silence.
She exhaled and fell back against the pillows with relief. That was what had awakened her. Not a noise. The silence. The AC had shut off. The unit was old and noisy. It died with startling regularity and when it did, the lack of sound was like an assault on her eardrums.
Even after four years, she still couldn’t decide what was better, noises that startled you or silence that shook you. No, that wasn’t true. You could get accustomed to noise. Silence was different. If it was too quiet, you started to hear things. A creak that might be a footstep. A tap that might mean someone was at the window. A whisper that could be a voice you prayed you’d never hear again…
“Stop it,” she said, and she sat up and tossed the covers aside.
The creaks were from the floorboards. Her apartment had been carved out of the first floor parlor and maid’s room of an old house, old by Vegas standards, anyway. The only thing tapping at the window was the branch of the indigo bush. She probably should have lopped the branch off when it first started growing toward the house, just as Cassie had suggested, but she was happy letting the Indigo go its own way.
She’d had to plead with the landlord to let her plant it. The woman had looked at her as if she was crazy but she’d finally said yeah, okay, you want an indigo bush? You buy it, plant it, take care of it, you can have it. Dawn had done all that and provided the tough little shrub with the nurturing it needed to gain a foothold, and it had thrived.
The Indigo had the right to grow in any direction it wanted. So did every living thing on the planet.
As for hearing that voice, Harman’s voice, well, it was better to be alert than complacent. Every now and then, she’d see some half-buried item in the paper about a woman who had run from a husband or a boyfriend, been found by him and beaten senseless. Or killed. And even as she’d feel pain for that poor, faceless woman, Dawn would know that what she’d just read was a reminder. She’d have to spend the rest of her life being careful, never letting down her guard, never forgetting that Harman was still out there, hating her because she’d done the unthinkable.
She’d defied him. Worse, she’d left him. That was the worst sin of all.
Her husband had owned a dog when she’d married him, a scared, skinny hound that made the mistake of creeping to her for comfort one day after Harman kicked it. Enraged, he’d beaten the poor thing half-senseless and when it ran away, he’d gone after it, dragged it back to the mountain and shot it.
“Bad enough it weren’t loyal to me,” he’d said, while she’d sobbed and begged him to spare the dog’s life. “What’s mine stays mine till I say otherwise. You got that, bitch?”
She should have left him then, but where would she have gone? She had no money, no job skills. Her mother was dead and even if she’d been alive, Orianna had never been able to help herself when a man abused her. How would she have helped her daughter?
Dawn swung her feet to the floor. What was wrong with her this morning? She hadn’t wasted this much time thinking about Harman in months. It was one thing to be cautious, another thing to be paranoid. Besides, thinking about him, worrying about what he might or might not do, only gave back some of the power he’d once wielded over her. She’d learned that sitting through some counseling sessions at the women’s shelter in Phoenix, the second stop in her flight four years back.
“Remember,” the counselor had said, “the best way to break with the past is to take control of your life. Educate yourself. Make plans. Learn to be independent. You are a whole person, no matter what your abuser wants you to think.”
Dawn had done all that. The proof was in what was going to happen today, her very first day on her own at her new job. That’s what she’d think about, not Harman.
The new job was going to be a challenge, but she was up to it. Keir thought so. Cassie did, too. Even Mary O’Connell had given her a wink a couple of days ago, when she’d breezed past the Special Services office where Dawn was standing at Jean’s shoulder, listening while she phoned to arrange for the Desert Song’s private jet to pick up a VIP and fly him from Boston to Vegas.
“Good luck,” Mrs. O’Connell had said softly, which had to mean that even the Duchess was aware she’d taken a more responsible position but then, not much that went on at the Song escaped the Duchess’s attention, even during the months she’d been ill.
“Thank you,” Dawn had replied, and the Duchess had smiled in that way of hers that made you feel as if she really cared about you.
Dawn laid out her clothes for the day. She ran her hand lightly over the blue jacket and beige skirt she’d bought with part of the clothing allowance that went with her new position. She just hoped she’d live up to everybody’s expectations.
“You’re going to be great at this,” Cassie kept saying. Keir had pretty much told her the same thing when he’d interviewed her. By then, she’d already passed the other hurdles: a clean employment record at the Song, votes of approval from Becky, who headed up Special Services, but Keir had the final say and what he’d said was, yes, the job was hers.
“You’re good with people,” he’d told her. “I think you’re going to be an excellent addition to the Special Services staff.”
Remembering, Dawn let out a breath. She hoped he was right. She really, really wanted this job. Better pay, which she sorely needed. Better hours, which she needed, too, and a bonus she’d never mentioned to anyone but Cassie.
She’d never really liked dealing cards, even though she’d been good at it. She had quick hands, she didn’t get ruffled. It was just that it always felt, well, wrong to be part of a process that separated people from their money, even in the classy area where she’d worked, the casino-within-a-casino at Desert Song, the high stakes tables where most of the players could easily lose tens of thousands of dollars without blinking.
“It’s just wrong,” she’d told Cassie one night over takeout Chinese.
Cassie put down her chopsticks and stared at her. “What’s wrong about it?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“That’s nuts,” Cassie replied bluntly. “What, are you gonna worry about jerks who have money to throw away?”
“I know,” Dawn said, “but—”
“But you grew up poor, like me.”
“Well, yes. But that’s not all of it. I mean, I know it’s their money. It’s just that it seems so—so—”
“Wong,” Cassie said, so deadpan that Dawn couldn’t help laughing. Cassie had sighed, then dug back into her shrimp with lobster sauce. “You are such a Goody Two-Shoes. Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing in Sin City.”
Hiding, that was what. Of course, Cassie didn’t know that. Nobody did.
Dawn stepped into the shower and lifted her face to the spray. She turned around slowly, let the water beat down on her hair, then worked in a dollop of shampoo.
Hiding right out in the open, because this was the perfect place for it. Las Vegas was always crowded. Phoenix hadn’t been this jammed with people, or even Los Angeles, and certainly not Santa Fe. Heaven knew she’d been in all of them in the days when Orianna bounced from town to town. She’d never seen streets more packed than the Vegas Strip or crowds any more dense than the ones that jammed the casinos. And there was a bonus. Harman wouldn’t come here. Calling Las Vegas “Sin City” was Cassie’s idea of a joke, but her husband would surely believe the devil walked these streets. He’d never come here unless he somehow learned where she was…
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Dawn said briskly, and shut off the water.
Why waste any part of this exciting morning on a part of her life that was over and done with? She had to dry her hair, put on makeup, dress…but first, she’d begin her day the way she always did, with a call to the Rocking Horse Ranch so she could say good morning to her baby. Her son. The love of her life, the one good thing, the only good thing, Harman had ever given her.
Dawn reached for the telephone. And when, a few minutes later, she heard Tommy say, “Hello, Mama,” in his sweet, eager voice, she made the same silent vow she made each morning. Someday, she’d find a way to keep her child safe without having to be separated from him, without having to keep him a secret…
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said, and her heart almost overflowed with love.
* * *
By the time she left for work, the temperature had already climbed into the nineties.
She was in luck. Her cranky old car started up right away.
Nothing stirred in the arid brown and beige land that ringed the city. The creatures of the desert took to their nests and burrows during the day, waiting for nightfall and the coolness it would bring, but humans weren’t that sensible. The roads and streets grew more crowded as she got closer to the city’s heart, the area known as the Strip, which was already thronged with people.
Dawn parked in the employees’ lot behind the Desert Song. The security guard at the back entrance touched the brim of his cap as she walked toward him.
“Mornin’, Miss Carter.”
She’d plucked the name from a display of baby clothes in a store. It had taken her months to grow accustomed to it. Now, the name felt as if it had always been hers.
“Morning, Howard.” She smiled at the burly man. “I missed you yesterday. Everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The guard grinned. “Took the day off so I could go to the doctor with my wife. Seems as if we’re gonna have a baby.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Impulsively she kissed his cheek. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Got to admit, we’re mighty happy. How about you? You must be feeling pretty good this morning. The word is this is gonna be your first day alone with all those VIPs.”
“Uh-huh.” She held up her hand, showed him her crossed fingers. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ll do fine, Miss Carter. Special’s got to be a fun place to work. Getting to rub shoulders with the rich and famous… The grapevine says that Arab prince is checking in later today.”
“That’s some grapevine,” Dawn said, and laughed. “It knows more than I do. Take care, Howard. And tell your wife I wish her well.”
She stepped through the door, took a deep breath of air so cool it felt like a soothing liquid slipping down her throat, and set off down the corridor. Guests thought of the Desert Song as a fantasyland resort and it was, but it took a small, efficient army to keep it that way. This part of the hotel was very different from the public area. It was given over to administrative services. No blinking lights, no slot machines and their electronic chortles, just the occasional hum of a printer or the soft ringing of a telephone. Offices opened onto both sides of the hallway. The Special Services office—her new office, Dawn thought, and her step quickened—was at the end of the corridor. She stopped at the door, took a deep breath, then stepped inside.
There were five Service Specialists and they all shared an efficient, behind-the-scenes workspace. Dawn had already begun adding her own touches by tacking things on the corkboard that hung over the desk, the small section of it, anyway, that belonged to her. She’d put up a few notes and a calendar with a photo of Tommy beneath it. It was just a small picture and he was only one little cowboy in a bunch of other little cowboys dressed up for one of the Ranch’s monthly cookouts. If anybody happened to see it, which she figured was unlikely, she could always point to one of the other kids and say he was her cousin. It was an awful way to live, but Tommy’s safety was everything.
She paused now, smiled at the picture and touched it lightly with one fingertip.
“Hey there, sunshine,” she whispered. Tommy almost seemed to smile back.
Okay. It was time to get to work. She had—she glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the desk—she had fifteen minutes to read through whatever faxes or e-mails were waiting. The Specialists worked rotating shifts and covered for each other on days off and vacations so that one of them was always available, day or night, to handle the needs of guests like the Arab prince that Howard had mentioned, not that Dawn or any of her sister Specialists would confirm that the rumor was right and the prince was, indeed, arriving today.
Aside from providing guests like the prince the Desert Song’s finest suites and most elegant service at no cost, the hotel also gave them privacy if that was what they wanted, publicity if that was their preference. Part of Dawn’s job was to know when to provide one or encourage the other.
“It’s not easy,” Keir had warned her during the interview. “It sounds glamorous, to hobnob with some of these people, but it isn’t.”
“Oh, I know that,” Dawn had replied. “I’ve been dealing at the high stakes tables for a year. Sometimes it’s fun…”
“And sometimes it’s hell.” He’d grinned, his black eyes snapping with amusement. “By the way, I heard how nicely you handled that little scene the other night. My compliments—but did the senator really try to slide an extra chip across the table after you showed seventeen?”
Dawn had given her boss a wide-eyed smile of innocence. “Surely not. The chip just fell out of his hand when he reached for his drink. Perfectly understandable, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh.” Keir’s grin had broadened. “Good thinking, Carter.” His expression had turned serious. “Okay, the position is yours. Just remember that we want you to keep our VIPs happy but not at the expense of taking any kind of guff. Do you understand what I mean?”
She did. Men hit on you in this town. Finding ways to put men off, but politely, was a necessity when you worked in a place where the food, the drinks, the good times all seemed not just free but endless.
Cassie was the person who had taught her how to do it.
They’d met right after Dawn passed the test the Song offered employees who wanted to learn to be dealers. Dawn was still a waitress at the Reveille coffee shop; Cassie had just taken a job as a cocktail waitress in the casino after deciding she’d had enough of dancing behind a bar. They’d hit it off so well that Dawn had moved out of her cramped furnished room and into Cassie’s tiny apartment while she looked for a place of her own.
“I swear,” Cassie said one night, “more guys think they can cop a feel now that I’m serving drinks than when I was wiggling my ass behind that bar.”
Cassie sounded annoyed more than anything else but Dawn felt a chill dance down her spine. Nobody had touched her since she’d left Harman. Nobody ever would. Even remembering how he’d slobbered on top of her made her feel sick.
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Sandra Marton
Immerse yourself again in the drama and passion of Sandra Marton’s bestselling story.
The winner takes all…
Wealthy attorney Gray Baron has come to Las Vegas on a mission to find a woman—Dawn Lincoln Kittredge, the long-lost grandchild of his uncle. But feisty Dawn is not about to make anything easy for him…
After being hurt in the past, Dawn is wary of strangers, even gorgeous, sexy ones like Gray. But mutual suspicion doesn’t stop an undeniable passion from igniting between them. As the tension mounts, all bets are off!
Originally published in 2002.
Raising the Stakes
Sandra Marton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#ubfdaeec1-0327-509e-a559-ea1a0cbbbc61)
Back Cover Text (#u53cca2d0-3c4e-5ac4-8178-793343200dec)
Title Page (#ub1c24f85-d3c4-5ddc-90a3-ccfed50e4a54)
PROLOGUE (#ua205eff5-8ed0-5e2a-af80-53cfb4528b79)
CHAPTER ONE (#u5510f10f-8a32-55f6-8c2b-6ecf10a9a471)
CHAPTER TWO (#u0f2a2be8-404c-5588-850b-2015fd6b115d)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc2fb578b-e2be-51fa-9400-1fd5b48d4621)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u5e4388af-a51a-5281-a9f8-5c7371cb7923)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
IN THE darkness of the hot summer night, Dawn lay curled like a baby in its mother’s womb as she listened to the frantic slap, slap, slap of the silk moth’s wings against the screen.
She couldn’t see the moth, not from here in the back bedroom, but she knew it was outside the kitchen window, shredding its beautiful wings in a useless attempt to reach the light.
The silk moth had turned up at dusk, right after she’d fed Tommy and put him to bed for the night.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” she’d whispered, and he’d given her his biggest, brightest three-year-old smile.
“An’ don’t let the bed bugs bite,” her son had replied, as he always did.
Dawn had kissed him, loving his sweet, baby scent. Tommy had rolled onto his belly and she’d drawn a light blanket over his upraised rump. Her smile had faded as she’d shut the door to his room and looked around the cabin, trying to see it through Harman’s eyes. Did she miss anything when she dusted earlier? Had she put all Tommy’s toys away?
She’d paused beside the sofa, smoothed down the flowered chenille throw that covered the seat cushion where the spring had popped. Everything looked fine but what looked fine to her didn’t necessarily look that way to her husband, especially on Friday nights when he cashed his paycheck at the Foodco and then stopped for drinks on the way home.
It didn’t always happen that way. Once in a while, Harman just came straight home. Those times weren’t perfect. He still liked things exactly as he liked them. “Everything in order,” he called it, “the way a man’s entitled, in his own home.” But it was easier on nights when he didn’t stop at the bar. Without liquor in him, he was still surly and he’d talk mean, too, but he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t—
Dawn blanked her mind to the rest.
The thing to do was keep busy, not notice that if Harman were heading directly for the cabin, he’d have been here an hour ago. She took a breath, glanced in the spotted oval mirror that hung over the table near the door. Did she look okay? Not too tired? Harman didn’t like her to look tired. It was the baby’s fault, he’d say, when she yawned too much or her eyes didn’t sparkle the way he liked. The baby was sapping her energy. Once she’d made the mistake of saying no, no, it wasn’t like that. The baby was the joy of her life.
“I am the joy of your life,” Harman had said coldly. “You remember that, girl.”
She would. Yes, she would. Because it wasn’t how he’d looked at her that had scared her, or how he’d sounded. It was the way he’d looked at Tommy afterward, as if their son was a trespasser in a world that had been perfect until he’d been born. It had never been perfect, not ever, not from the day after the wedding when she’d thoughtlessly left her lipstick and comb on the bathroom sink…
Dawn spun away from the mirror, went into the kitchen, took a broom from the closet and stepped out onto the sagging porch. It would need sweeping. The tall oaks that surrounded the cabin were what made the mountain so handsome, but Harman didn’t much care for seeing leaves and acorns on the porch.
“Got to be swept twice a day,” he said.
So Dawn swept it, twice a day. Sometimes more than that, just to be sure. And that night, as she’d swept, she’d seen the silk moth.
It wasn’t the first one she’d ever seen. Years ago, when she was a little girl, a moth just like it had come swooping in through the open trailer door. Her mother had screamed as if it was a creature straight out of hell, grabbed a rolled-up magazine and gone after it.
“Kill it,” she’d yelled, “kill it!”
Instead Dawn caught the moth and took it outside, feeling the delicate pink wings trembling with terror in her cupped hands. She’d set it free in the stand of scraggly trees between the trailer park and the highway.
“Go on,” she’d whispered, “spread your pretty wings and fly far, far away.”
Her mother slapped her when she went back into the trailer, not very hard because she was already high on what she called her pain pills, but just enough to remind her that she’d been disobedient.
“I tell you to do a thing,” she’d said, “you do it. You got that, girl?”
Dawn got it. Rules were to be obeyed. Still, she’d risked breaking another one the next day. She was supposed to go straight home after school. She had chores to do and stopping off anywhere, especially at the library to poke her nose into books that gave her, Orianna said, fancy ideas, was forbidden. But Dawn wanted to know the name of the beautiful moth whose life she’d saved. She found a picture of it in the encyclopedia. It was a Glover’s silk moth, a thing of rare beauty, and though she’d always hoped to see one again, she never had.
She knew it was silly but tonight she wondered if, by some miracle, the moth on the porch might be the one she’d saved years ago. She paused in her sweeping, watching the moth with delight until, suddenly, she heard the sound of a truck laboring up the mountain.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Was it Harman? So early? That would be good. It would mean he hadn’t stopped for more than a drink or two—but it would be bad, too. She wasn’t done sweeping and just look, she’d somehow gotten a stain on her skirt.
It wasn’t Harman. The sound of the engine died away. Dawn dragged a breath into her lungs and swept the porch until the unpainted boards were spotless. Not that it mattered. If he came home drunk, she could have swept a hundred times over and he’d still find a speck of dirt, a bit of leaf, something, anything, and when he did…
She switched the thought off, just clicked it to silence as if it were a station on a radio because she’d learned there wasn’t any sense, really, in thinking ahead. Whatever happened would happen. Nothing she could do would change it. She could only sweep harder and faster and not do anything stupid, like hurrying back inside the cabin and waking Tommy so he could see the silk moth. Her son loved all the creatures that shared this godforsaken mountain with them, but why take him from his bed to see something that would surely be dead by morning? And it would be dead, drawn by the light Harman insisted must be on so he could be sure she wasn’t in the arms of one of the nonexistent men he was convinced came around whenever he wasn’t there.
Once, exhausted at the end of a day spent cooking and cleaning in hopes of pleasing him, she’d forgotten the light. Harman had come in late and dragged her out of bed, to the front room and the unlit lamp.
“Did you think you could hide in here without my knowin’ what you were up to?” he’d said, and when she’d tried to explain that she hadn’t done anything, that his preoccupation with her leaving on the light didn’t make any sense, he’d called her a liar and a whore. He’d beaten her and then he’d unzipped his jeans, torn off her nightgown and pushed himself inside her.
She never forgot to turn on the light after that.
It was like a beacon, shining there in the blackness of the mountain night, luring the gossamer-winged creatures of the forest to their deaths. The silk moth would meet the same fate. It would beat its delicate wings to pieces in a fruitless attempt to reach a warm, shiny world that was only an illusion. Bad enough she knew that awful truth. Why would she want Tommy to know it, too? Her son had lots of time to learn about the world.
So she’d finished sweeping a floor that didn’t need sweeping and now she lay in the dark, listening to the pathetic slap of the moth’s wings, to the quick thud of her own heart as it grew later and later. At last, she heard the whine of her husband’s pickup truck as it made its way toward the clearing.
Dawn shuddered, held her breath. If she could only feign sleep…
The truck door slammed. Booted feet stomped up the wooden steps and across the porch. The door opened.
Maybe it would be okay. Harman had been good to her, once. When he’d asked her to marry him, when he’d offered to take her away from her mother and the trailer park and the endless stream of men who slept in her mother’s bed, he’d seemed the answer to her prayers.
“Shit!”
Dawn dug her face into the muslin pillow tick. Stay asleep, Tommy, she thought frantically, don’t, oh don’t wake up. Not that Harman would ever hurt their son, she was sure of that, but still…
Another noise. More cursing. The sound of Harman falling, then getting to his feet.
“Goddammit,” he roared. “What the hell is this?”
Oh, God! Had he tripped over something? What? What could she have left on the floor? She’d put the broom away. The dustpan. The chairs were lined up under the table just so, all of them neatly arranged. Tommy’s toys, such as they were, were carefully placed on the shelf in his room…
The red car.
The brand-new red plastic car she’d bought at the supermarket, even though it cost two dollars, because of the way her baby had looked at it, his blue eyes going all round with wonder. He’d played with it all afternoon, rolling it back and forth, back and forth while she folded laundry until, finally, he’d fallen sound asleep right there at her feet, the car clutched in his chubby fist. She’d smiled, scooped him up, carried him to his crib—and kicked the red car, by mistake. It had rolled toward the corner and she’d forgotten it, forgotten to look for it.
The bedroom door shot open. The light flashed on. Don’t move, Dawn thought desperately, don’t open your eyes, don’t blink, don’t stir, don’t breathe…
“Get up!”
She scrambled up against the pillows, clutching the quilt to her chin. Her husband loomed over her, looking as big as the mountain he came from and as mean as the storms that blew across it.
“Harman. Please. I didn’t mean to—”
The first blow caught her across her cheek. The second was better aimed and got her in the jaw. Her head snapped back; the coppery taste of blood was on her tongue.
“Where’d this come from, huh? Where’d it come from?”
He shook his fist under her nose, opened his hand, let her look at what lay in his palm. It was Tommy’s red car.
“Answer me, dammit. Where’d you get this?”
“I bought it. In Queen City.”
He hit her again, this time with the hand that held the toy. Dawn felt the skin split just above her eye.
“Ain’t no toy stores in Queen City, bitch. Try another lie.”
“I didn’t buy it at a toy store.” She was gasping for breath now. Harman was clutching her by the neck. He hoisted her to her knees and his fingers pressed hard into her throat. “Harman? Harman, please. I can’t breathe.”
“Who was here? What man came here and brought this to keep my son silent while you and he rutted in my bed?”
“Nobody. I swear it. Nobody was here. I bought the car. At the supermarket. They sell toys now, and Tommy saw this, and he wanted it so badly that I—”
She cried out as he lifted her from the bed and threw her against the dresser. Pain shot up her spine and into her neck.
“Liar,” he snarled as he bent over her. The stink of his breath choked her.
“It’s the truth. You know I don’t have men here, Harman. Why would I? I love you. Only you. Nobody but—”
He punched her. Dawn’s head jerked back and he hit her again, then curled his hand into the neckline of her nightgown and ripped it down to the hem.
“Whore! Harlot! Only a decent woman knows the meaning of love.”
“Harman. Please. Please, oh sweet Jesus, don’t—”
“Bitches like you ain’t fit to use His name.”
He hit her again. And again. By the time he tossed her on the bed and unzipped his pants, the world had become a gray blur.
“You won’t learn,” he said, as he came down on top of her. “I try and try to teach you to be a good wife but you—just—won’t—”
Dawn moaned as he seated himself deep inside her. She could feel her dry flesh tear as he pounded into her again and again until, finally, she felt the hot spurt of his discharge. He fell against her, his breathing harsh, the reek of him like sewage in her nostrils. She could feel wetness between her legs. Was it from him, or was it blood?
I hate you, she thought, God, I hate you, Harman Kitteridge. I wish you were dead!
No. It was wrong to think such things. This was her husband. She had taken vows that bound her to him. He was the father of her child.
Maybe he was right. Maybe all this was her fault. She didn’t lie with other men, she didn’t even talk to other men, but surely she did things that made him angry. She could learn to do things his way. The right way. She could—she could plan a little better, look at the sink and notice that she’d put the soap dish in the wrong place or see that she hadn’t folded his work shirts the way he preferred them folded.
She could leave him.
No. She could never do that. It wasn’t right. A wife was supposed to cleave to her husband. Besides, there was the baby to consider. She’d grown up without a father; she knew that a child deserved better than that. And Harman didn’t mistreat the baby. He’d never raised a hand to him. Tommy loved his daddy. He loved him. Wasn’t that worth the world?
Dawn lay stiff and silent under her husband’s suffocating weight. He was a heavy man, big and muscled from years of working the timber on the mountain. She was small, just like her mother. But she knew better than to complain that he was crushing her and, after a long time, Harman grunted and rolled off her.
Dawn waited. Then, slowly, carefully, she began inching toward the edge of the mattress. She had to wash, put some ice on her jaw and on her temple. Her little boy was getting older. The last time Harman had beaten her, Tommy’s eyes had gone wide when he saw her in the morning.
“Mama hurt?” he’d said, as he’d touched his soft baby fingers to the cut on her lip.
“No, darlin’,” Dawn had answered, “no, Mama’s fine…”
“Where you think you’re goin’?”
She gasped, jerked back as Harman’s hand closed hard on her wrist. “Nowhere. Just—just to the bathroom.”
“You was goin’ to check on the kid.”
“Well—well, yes. I thought the baby might have kicked off the blankets and—”
“He ain’t a baby no more. Don’t need you hangin’ over him all the time.”
“He’s only three, Harman. I just want to—”
She cried out as his fingers bit into her flesh. “He’s only three,” he mimicked cruelly. His voice dropped, grew flat and cold. “Three’s plenty big enough for him to know to put away his damn toys.”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll teach him.”
“You’d better. ‘Cause if you don’t, I will.”
A chill shuddered down her spine. “Harman. He’s just a baby. He’s just—Ahh. Harman. Please. Don’t. Don’t—”
Dawn closed her eyes as her husband climbed between her thighs and shoved himself inside her again. Each surge of his body was like a blow.
When he was done, she rolled away from him, rolled into a tight ball and lay shaking in the dark, her hand curled into a fist and shoved between her teeth to keep them from chattering. It had never been this bad before. Never. And it was her fault. Hers. It had to be. If she just learned to be a good wife…
“You’re no good.” Harman’s voice rumbled in the silence. “You never will be. You’re just like your mama. Don’t know how in hell I came to marry a bitch like you.”
Dawn bit back a sob. There was no sense in contradicting him, in reminding him that he’d seduced her into thinking a life with him would be better than the one she’d been living, that she’d gone to his bed a virgin.
“Don’t know why I ever thought you’d make me a good wife or that you’d be a good mother to my son.” The bedsprings squealed as he rolled onto his back. “The boy’s turnin’ out bad already.” He yawned; his voice took on the blurry softness of alcohol-induced sleep. “But I’ll fix that. I’ll teach him the right way. I’ll turn your little baby into a man.”
“No.” The word burst from her lips. “Harman, no. Not Tommy. You can’t—”
“I can do whatever in hell I want. This is my house. The boy is my flesh and blood. Startin’ tomorrow, I’m gonna start teachin’ him that.”
“Harman—”
A whimper drifted through the thin wall. Dawn grew rigid with fear as the whimper grew stronger.
“Wazzat?”
“The wind,” she said quickly, “it’s just the wind.”
“Mama?”
The baby’s cry was soft but it seemed as loud as a church bell in the silence. Tommy, she thought, Tommy, no, please, baby, no. Go back to sleep.
“Mama?” her son said, and began to cry.
“It’s the kid,” Harman grumbled. “Just listen at him, sobbin’ like a girl.”
“He’s not. He’s just—we must have woken him. He heard us and he’s afraid. He’s only a baby.”
“I’ll give him somethin’ to be afraid of,” her husband said. He rose up on one elbow, groaned and fell back against the pillows. “In the mornin’. I’m too wore out now. Man works all day, comes home for a little peace and quiet and does he get it?”
“Maaamaaa…”
“Go shut the kid up, you hear me, Dawn? You keep him quiet, or else.”
Dawn sprang from the bed. She tugged what remained of her nightgown together and ran into the next room. Tommy was standing up in his crib. He was too big for it, really, and suddenly she knew why she hadn’t suggested it was time to put him into a bed, because she’d been afraid of this all along, afraid of Harman taking a good look at their child and realizing he wasn’t a baby any longer.
“Mama?”
Tommy sobbed her name, lifted his arms to her and she scooped him up, held him close, soothed him with whispers and kisses.
“Hush, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Mama’s here. She won’t let anybody hurt you.”
Except, it was a lie. Harman would hurt him and she’d be powerless to stop it from happening. Hot tears burned her eyes. Why had she denied the truth for so long? Her husband was a monster. He took pleasure from inflicting pain on those too weak to fight back. Tommy’s life would be even worse than hers. He was a child, and helpless. Harman would brutalize him…and when he grew up, what kind of man would he be? One who’d learned to beat others into submission with his fists?
No. God, no. She couldn’t let that happen. She was the one who had brought her baby into this and she was the only one who could save him. Dawn knew it as surely as she knew that the silk moth outside would be dead by morning.
Sounds came through the thin wall. Harman was asleep and snoring. He’d snore straight through to morning and wake up mean-tempered and even more dangerous than he was now.
Quietly she stole from the baby’s room to the kitchen where the day’s laundry lay neatly folded in a wicker basket, awaiting the touch of the iron. She always ironed on Saturdays. Harman preferred it like that. He liked to sit by the stone hearth and watch her iron. She’d told herself it was a charming, homey thing to do. Now, for the first time, she saw it for what it was, a fabrication that made them seem like a real family when they were actually something out of a nightmare.
Tommy had fallen asleep. Holding him carefully in one arm, Dawn dug into the basket for a change of clothes for her son and a cotton dress and underwear for herself. Gently she laid him in the basket while she stripped off her torn nightgown and put on the fresh clothes. She knew she looked a mess, not just because her dress was unironed but because her face had to be bruised. Almost as an afterthought, she looked down at her feet. No shoes. Well, that was all right. Shoes were easy enough to come by.
Life wasn’t.
Dawn settled the baby in the crook of one arm as she took the flour canister from the cupboard and dug down inside it for the few dollars she’d managed to squirrel away from what she earned selling her blackberry preserves each season. She’d never let herself think about why she’d saved the money and hidden it; it had been a terrible risk that would surely have brought her a beating. Now, she knew she’d put the money aside in anticipation of this moment.
Harman’s keys lay on the floor, glittering in the light cast by the lamp. She picked them up, opened the door and stepped onto the porch where the thwarted silk moth still beat against the window screen. Dawn hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she went back into the house and reached for the lamp.
The light blinked out. The awful sound of the moth’s wings thudding fruitlessly against the screen stopped in almost the same instant. Carefully Dawn eased the door open and stepped outside. In the faint wash of the moon, she could see the creature hovering in confusion at the window.
As she had done so many years before, she scooped up the silk moth with her hand.
“Fly away,” she whispered. “Fly away, and don’t ever come back.”
The moth’s great wings beat. It lifted into the air, hung suspended before her for an instant, then flew into the night. Dawn climbed into her husband’s truck, strapped her baby into the seat beside her. She took a deep breath, stuck the key into the ignition, turned it and stepped down, hard, on the gas.
In her heart, she’d always known it would come to this, that she would have to take her child and run for his life and for hers.
She was leaving the monster she’d married and she was never, ever coming back.
CHAPTER ONE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
Four years later:
GRAHAM BARON stepped out of the terminal at the Austin airport and wondered how he’d ever survived spending the first seventeen years of his life in Texas. He was thirty-three and lived in New York now but whenever he came back here, the fact that he’d been born in this place always surprised him. It all seemed alien. The people. Their lazy drawls. The vastness of land and sky. The weather.
Oh, yeah, he thought, the weather, as the heat washed over him like an open furnace. And it wasn’t really summer. Of course, there were those who said this wasn’t really Texas, either. The guidebooks called the area hill country. So did people back East.
“Are you really from Texas?” somebody would say, if the subject of his birthplace came up.
“Yup,” he’d reply, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and putting on a John Wayne drawl, “ah surely am.”
It always got a laugh, considering that he had no accent, didn’t wear cowboy boots and had washed away the stink of oil, cattle and horses sixteen long years ago.
“Where in Texas?” they’d ask. And when Gray said he’d been born in Austin, someone would nod wisely and say, Austin, huh? Wasn’t that, like, different? Weren’t there green trees and rolling hills in Austin? It wasn’t really the same as the rest of the state, right?
Like hell it wasn’t, Gray thought as he put down his briefcase, peeled off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and rolled back his shirtsleeves. A man accustomed to a soaring Manhattan skyline had little use for the puny imitation of this one, and the hills of Central Park rolled as much as the land around here.
Dammit, he was in a rotten mood. For what had to be the hundredth time since he’d boarded the plane at La Guardia this morning, he wished he hadn’t let himself get talked into making this trip…but he had. What was that old saying? Curiosity killed the cat. In his case, it had put him on a 6:00 a.m. flight to Texas.
A horn beeped at the curb. Gray looked over, saw a dark green Jeep with the Espada longhorns painted on the door. Abel Jones waved a hand. Gray waved back and trotted over.
“Nice of you to pick me up,” he said as he got into the seat beside Abel and dumped his briefcase in the back.
Abel gave him a long look, then spat out the window and pulled into traffic. “Jes’ part of the job,” he said laconically.
So much for conversation. Not that Gray was surprised. Jonas Baron’s foreman was a lot like the old man himself. Tall, spare, seemingly ageless, and not given to small talk. Well, that was fine. Gray wasn’t much interested in conversation. He sat back, let the coolness of the air-conditioning wash over him as they made their way out of the airport and onto the highway that led from the city to the town of Brazos Springs, and tried to figure out what his uncle could possibly want.
Jonas had phoned late last night. The call had drawn Gray from the kind of deep sleep that came of having a woman lying warm and sated in his arms. The woman, someone he’d been seeing for several weeks, murmured a soft complaint as he rolled away from her and reached for the telephone, an automatic reaction that came of eight years of practicing criminal law.
You got a lot of middle of the night calls, when your clients weren’t exactly the salt of the earth.
“Gray Baron,” he said hoarsely.
The voice that responded was one he hadn’t heard in a long time, an easy Texas drawl laid over a whip-sharp tone of command.
“Graham?”
“Jonas?” Gray peered at the lighted dial on his alarm clock, then sat up against the pillows. “What’s happened?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your old man, if that’s what you mean. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with nobody you care about, so you can relax.”
“Gray?” the woman beside him murmured. “What’s the matter?”
That was what he was trying to figure out. He reached back, smoothed his hand over her warm skin. Telephone at his ear, he got to his feet and walked, naked, from the bedroom.
“What’s that supposed to mean? That there’s nothing wrong with anybody I care about?”
“It’s jes’ a statement, boy. No need to try and parse it.” There was a brief pause. “I guess you’re wonderin’ why I’m callin’ so late.”
“You guessed right,” Gray said dryly.
“What time is it there, anyways? Midnight?”
“It’s almost two. What’s up, Jonas?”
There was another silence. “I just, uh, I just thought…I thought that we ain’t seen you in these parts for a while.”
Jesus, Gray thought, his uncle had finally gone senile. “No,” he said carefully, “you haven’t.”
“Not since Samantha married that Dee-mee-tree-ose guy,” Jonas said, turning the Greek name of his stepdaughter’s husband into pure Texas.
Forget senile. The old man still had a mind like a steel trap. “So?”
“So…” More silence, then the sound of Jonas clearing his throat. “So, I wondered if you might be in the mood to pop down for a visit.”
“Let me get this straight,” Gray said carefully. “You phoned in the middle of the night to invite me to Espada?”
The old man chuckled. “You don’t buy that, huh?”
“No.” Gray walked through his dark apartment to the kitchen, tucked the phone against his shoulder and opened the refrigerator. He took out a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the top and lifted it to his lips. “Hell, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you really think I would?”
“That’s what I like about you, boy. You ain’t like some people. You don’t believe in treatin’ me like I was God.”
Gray laughed. What his uncle meant was that he didn’t like the old man and he’d never pretended otherwise. He’d never toadied up to the Baron money the way his father did. Jonas whistled; Leighton came running. It had always been like that, all the years Gray was growing up. Sometimes he’d been hard-pressed to know which of the men he despised more, his father for sucking up or Jonas for wallowing in the pleasure of it. After a while, he hadn’t bothered giving it much thought. All that mattered was that he hadn’t done the same thing. He’d thumbed his nose at both of them and at a system that should have died out in the middle ages, and made his own way in the world.
“No,” he said bluntly, “I don’t.” He put the bottle on the counter and made his way back toward the bedroom. “Look, Jonas, let’s cut the crap, okay? It’s the middle of the night. This is the first time you’ve ever phoned me. Come to think of it, this might just be the first time you’ve said more than three words in a row to me.”
“Or you to me, boy.”
“Absolutely. So, why would you expect me to buy into the idea that you called to invite me down for the weekend? Get to the bottom line. What’s the deal?”
Another of those pauses hummed over the phone. Gray could hear the rasp of the old man’s breath.
“You’re some kinda hotshot lawyer up there in New York, ain’t you?”
Was he? He was a partner in a prestigious firm, but did hotshot lawyers spend their days putting the scum of the earth back on the streets?
“I’m a lawyer, licensed to practice in the state of New York,” Gray said brusquely.
“Well, I got a legal matter needs tendin’.”
“A legal matter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why come to me? For starters, I’m not licensed to practice in Texas.”
“Don’t need you to practice. Maybe I should have said what I need is legal advice.”
“You have people to give it to you. Your son, for one.”
“Travis is a lawyer, all right. But he lives in California.”
“Yeah, and as we both just agreed, I live in New York.”
“I don’t want to involve Travis in this.”
Did the old man know the effect that remark would have? Gray squelched the sudden rush of curiosity that shot through him.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve probably got a powerhouse law firm on retainer in Austin.”
“Damned right.” A touch of pride crept into his uncle’s voice. “The best.”
“Exactly. Whatever legal advice you need, you’d be better off turning to them than to—”
“This here’s a private matter. I want you to handle it, not my son or a passel of lawyers who got no more interest in the Baron name than when they see it on checks.”
Another little flare of curiosity went through his blood but Gray ignored it. “That’s very flattering,” he said politely, “but—”
“Bull patties,” Jonas said curtly. “I ain’t tryin’ to flatter you, an’ you wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn if I was.”
Gray sat down on the edge of the bed. The old man was good at this. He played people like a virtuoso played a Stradivarius, but Gray wasn’t going to let himself be drawn in.
“You’re right,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Look, whatever this is about, I’m not interested. I’m in the middle of a case.”
“You could fly down in the mornin’, fly back by nightfall.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Besides—”
“Besides, you’d sooner work for a no-account horse thief than me.”
The only good thing about Jonas was that he was always direct. Gray often thought it was the single quality he and his uncle had in common.
“Yeah.” He smiled into the darkness. “That about sums it up.”
“You know, boy, it ain’t my fault your father’s spent his life suckin’ up to my money.”
Gray rose to his feet. “It’s late,” he said coldly, “and I’ve had a long day. Good night, Jonas.”
“Wait!” The old man huffed audibly. “I need your help.”
Jonas Baron needed help? His help? Gray paused with his finger on the disconnect button. “In what way?”
“You fly down to Espada and I’ll explain.”
“I have no intention of flying down to Espada. Tell me the problem now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Jesus, I don’t believe this! You get me up in the middle of the night, you mutter some crap about legal advice, and I’m supposed to drop everything and head for Texas?”
“Yes,” the old man said sharply, and Gray suddenly realized his uncle’s just-folks accent had disappeared. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
“Here’s a news flash for you, Uncle. I’ve never done what I was supposed to do and I’m not going to start now.”
“You might find this interesting.”
“I doubt it.”
“Gray.” Another exhalation of breath, this one slightly ragged. “I’m an old man.”
Ah, hell. Gray sat down again. “Look,” he said, “it’s true, you and I never really got along, but—”
“We’d have gotten along fine if we hadn’t based our judgment of each other on your father.”
Gray laughed. Definitely, direct and to the point. And maybe even dead-on correct. “I guess that’s possible. But we did, and it’s too late to go back and change things.” His voice softened. “Jonas, I wish I could help you. But I really am in the middle of a case, and—”
“I’m getting old, boy. Real old.” Jonas cleared his throat. “And—and I did something, a long time ago, that I need to atone for, before my time comes.”
“Hell, I’m no clergyman.”
“Dammit, are you listening to me? I don’t want some candy-assed preacher to hear me confess my sins. What I need is a man I can trust.”
“And you think that’s me? Why? You and I hardly know each other.”
“There’s some of my blood in your veins, boy, even if you wish there wasn’t. My brother was your grandfather.”
Gray pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Jonas. Listen, if you need advice, I can recommend someone. One of my partners clerked for a Federal judge—”
“So did you.”
That the old man would know so much about him took him by surprise. Still, he didn’t want to get drawn into this, whatever “this” might be. Over the years, he’d kept his distance from his father, from his uncle, from Texas. He went back for weddings and big family parties but only because he liked his cousins. Other than that, he’d never felt part of the Baron clan, never wanted to be part of it.
“Graham?”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“I’m tellin’ you again, boy. I need your help.”
“And I’m telling you, Uncle. I can’t give it.”
The old man’s patience slipped. “Damnation,” he’d roared, “you fly down here and I swear, it’ll take less time to tell you my problem than it’s takin’ you to tell me you ain’t interested in hearin’ it!”
Gray had known that was probably the truth. Besides, he couldn’t quite repress that unwanted curiosity. After another few minutes he’d said okay, he’d take the first flight out of La Guardia in the morning.
“Good,” his uncle had said briskly. “You’re on TransAmerica flight 1157, leavin’ at 6:05 in the a.m.”
The phone had gone dead and Gray knew he’d been had. He’d cursed, then laughed, finally climbed back into bed and when the woman in it rolled into his arms he’d made love to her. But part of him had remained at a distance while he’d tried to come up with a reason his uncle would go to such lengths to arrange for this command performance. At four-thirty, he’d risen from the bed, showered, dressed, left a note for his still-sleeping lover asking her to please let herself out and that he’d phone her in a day or two. Then he’d taken a taxi to the airport.
Yes indeed, he thought, as the Jeep pulled through the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to Espada, curiosity killed the cat—but he was, just as Jonas said, a hotshot New York attorney, too smart to be drawn into anything against his will. He’d hear his uncle’s story, offer some legal mumbo jumbo to soothe whatever twinge of conscience could plague a man at the end of such a long, powerful life and be back in New York by suppertime.
For all he knew, this little break in routine might just clear his head, make him feel better about the way he earned his living, twisting Justice’s arm just enough to keep his next rich client from serving a stretch in prison.
The Jeep came to a stop in a cloud of dust. Gray nodded to Abel, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the house. When he was a kid, it had reminded him of Tara. It still did, he thought, and he was smiling when his uncle’s wife opened the door. Gray was taken aback. He hadn’t given it any thought but now that he did, he was surprised to see Marta, considering how secretive Jonas had made all this sound.
“Graham,” his stepaunt said, “how good of you to come.” Smiling, she held out her arms and hugged him. She smelled of expensive perfume and looked as if she were planning to lunch on Madison Avenue and he thought, as always, how surprising it was that such a woman would be happy in this setting. He liked her; he always had. Of all the wives the old man had gone through, Marta was the best.
“Marta.” He kissed her cheek, put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You’re as gorgeous as ever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, laughing. She linked her arm through his, shut the door on the hot breath of late spring and drew him into the elegant foyer. “I’m so pleased you decided to accept Jonas’s invitation.”
The old man’s summons had been about as much an invitation as the Spanish Inquisition would have extended to heretics, but Gray kept the thought to himself.
“My pleasure,” he said politely. “How have you been?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” Her eyes clouded. “Except Jonas, of course.”
Gray looked at her. “He’s not well?”
“No. Not at all. Didn’t he tell you?” She sighed and shook her head. “Of course he didn’t. He seems to think he can pretend the years aren’t finally catching up with him. And that his doctors haven’t diagnosed—”
“Diagnosed what?”
Marta dropped his arm and folded her hands together at her waist. “Leukemia,” she said softly. “That’s the reason for all of this.”
Hell. It was like sitting in at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Gray knew the characters but he didn’t understand the dialogue. “All of what?” he said carefully.
“You know. The talk about what will happen after—after he’s gone. Whether he’s divided his assets properly. Whether he’s left each child what that child truly wants.” She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “I’m sure your chat is going to ease his mind. I mean, yes, certainly, Jonas has an excellent attorney. And he’s given a great deal of thought to his will, but he seems to feel that discussing some of the specifics with you, as a member of the family, will help him be sure he’s taken care of everything.”
Gray’s eyebrows rose. Was that what this was all about? Was he here to read the old man’s will over his shoulder and offer advice on who should get what? He couldn’t imagine any of Jonas’s offspring quarreling over the disposition of the estate.
“Well,” he said cautiously, “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will.” Marta cleared her throat. “Now,” she said briskly, “what can I get you?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Gray glanced at his watch. “If you’d just tell Jonas that I’m here…”
“How about some coffee? Or something cold. Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours. You’ll join us, of course.”
“I’m not sure,” he said, although he knew that he wouldn’t. “There’s a two o’clock flight back to New York. If I can, I’d like to be on it.”
“Ah. I’ll be disappointed, but I understand. Well then, I’ll have Carmen bring something for you to nibble on. Some of her pecan shortbread, and some lemonade. How’s that sound?”
“Thank you, but it isn’t necessary.”
“Don’t be silly.” They paused at the closed library door. Marta turned to him and smiled, her eyes glittering with what he knew were unshed tears. “It’s just so kind of you to do this for Jonas. Really, it’s very generous.”
Gray almost told her that kindness had nothing to do with it. Instead he took her hand and squeezed it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will. And Gray…try not to let him see your surprise at all the changes.” Her voice quavered. “Will you do that, please?”
He nodded, and she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she turned to the door and he could almost see her pulling herself together.
“Jonas?” She rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood, then turned the brass handle. “Darling? Graham’s here.”
Marta stepped back and Gray entered the library. The door swung softly shut behind him and as he looked around, his first thought was that he didn’t know what she’d meant, warning him about changes. Everything was the same. He remembered when Marta had married his uncle. She’d redone the living room, the dining room, some of the rest of the big house, but this place—his uncle’s lair, was the way he thought of it—had not been touched.
There were the same sofas and chairs he recalled from childhood, the leather cushions slightly worn and burnished by time. There was the same mahogany sideboard, and the big desk with the conquistador’s sword that had given Espada its name mounted above it. The same draperies hung at the windows, the same old and beautifully faded silk carpet lay on the floor. And there was Jonas, seated in his favorite chair near the massive fireplace, a glass in his hand.
Nothing had changed at all…and then his uncle put down the glass and rose to his feet, and Gray caught his breath.
Jonas had shrunk. That was his first thought. The old man had gone from being six foot something to being five-nine or-ten…except, he hadn’t. It was just that he was hunched over, those once-massive shoulders rounded, that proud back bent.
“Graham.”
Jonas started across the room and Gray got his second shock. His uncle’s stride had always been a proclamation that he owned the world. Now, he shuffled. His booted feet slid across the carpet. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. It was the sad, painful sound of age, and of a man who knew he was approaching the end of his life.
“Good to see you, boy.”
Gray gave himself a mental shake and met his uncle in the center of the room. They clasped hands. Jonas’s grip was still surprisingly strong but his fingers felt bony and cold. For the first time in his life, Gray felt a twinge of pity for him.
“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle,” he said.
Jonas nodded toward a pair of chairs. “Have a seat. You want somethin’? I can ring and ask Carmen to bring some coffee.”
“No, thank you. I had enough coffee on the plane to float a ship.”
“Good. I never did trust a man who’d sip coffee when he could be sippin’ whiskey instead.” The old man grinned. “Or ain’t you a bourbon man, nephew? I can’t seem to recall.”
Gray smiled. Jonas recalled, all right. It was a standing joke that nobody would ever join the old man in a glass of the whiskey he favored. His sons preferred wine, beer and ale. Gray’s preference was for single-malt scotch, but the memory of those cold fingers pressing against his made him reconsider.
“I’m not, usually,” he said. “But I think some bourbon might be fine right about now.”
Jonas nodded and shuffled to the sideboard. Gray saw his hands tremble as he opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and warned himself not to let the signs of illness and age influence him. He’d come prepared to listen to whatever his uncle wanted to tell him, then to decline involvement and head home, and that was still what he intended to do. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into sorting out some past mistake, real or imagined…unless Marta was right, and he was here to advise Jonas on his will. Hell, he wouldn’t do that, either. He wanted no part in any of this.
“Here we are,” Jonas said.
Gray took the glass, touched it to his uncle’s and sipped the whiskey. There was more ceremony to get through, this time involving a box of Cuban cigars, which he refused. He waited while the old man bit the tip off one, spat it into the fireplace and lit up.
“Ain’t supposed to drink or smoke, but what the hell’s the difference? I ain’t long for this world anyways.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.
A knock sounded at the door. Jonas opened it, took a quick look at the tray in his housekeeper’s hands and waved her out.
“Lemonade,” he said, his lip curling with disgust, “and cake. You’d think there was a couple of kids in this here room.” He slammed the door and looked at Gray. “Where was I?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“That ain’t what I was saying. I was tellin’ you there’s not much point in me avoidin’ a good shot of whiskey and a fine cigar.” Jonas eased into a chair, motioned to the other one. “But you’re right, I do have some talkin’ to do. I suppose Marta told you I’m dyin’?”
“Uh, well, uh, she said—”
“Come on,” Jonas said impatiently, “don’t play games! There’s just so much time a man has got, and I’ve used up most of mine. Remember what I said last night? That I liked the way you shoot straight? Don’t disappoint me now, boy. I’m dyin’. That’s all there is to it. And you know what? Dyin’s okay. I lived a long, full life.” He smiled, took a puff on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Had me five fine wives, four strong sons, built me this ranch and had me enough good times for a dozen men.” The smile faded and he sat forward. “But the closer I come to the end, the more I’ve been thinkin’ that not all them good times was exactly good, if you catch my drift.”
What was the old man getting at? A confession? A cleansing of the soul? Gray cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, all of us do things we’re not proud of, from time to time. I mean—”
“Damnation, boy, get that panicked look off your face.” Jonas scowled darkly. “I told you, If I wanted a pulpit pansy I’d have sent for one. I ain’t about to drop a bunch of regrets in your lap and ask for absolution.” He paused, took a long breath, then got to his feet. Slowly he walked to his desk and picked up a paperweight. “You ever notice this, Graham?”
Gray rose and followed his uncle to the desk. Jonas held out the paperweight. Gray took it from him and, as he hefted it, he realized it wasn’t a paperweight at all. It was a chunk of rock, pitted, rough and heavy, mottled with snaky streaks of what he figured was some kind of mineral deposit.
“No,” he said slowly, “I guess I never did. What is it? Granite?”
The old man chuckled. “Hold it to the light.”
Gray moved to the window and lifted the rock toward the glass. A beam of sunshine struck it, turning the mineral streaks into dazzling ribbons of bright yellow.
“Gold?” Gray said, looking at his uncle. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what it is, all right. Gold ore.” Jonas took the rock from Gray’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Took it from a mine in Venezuela, more’n half a century ago.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a gold miner,” Gray said, with a little smile. The old man was right. He had, indeed, led a long and interesting life.
“I been a lot of things.” Jonas opened his fist, looked at the rock, then put it down. “I was a young man back then. Already made me a pile of money in longhorns and some other things nobody else thought would pay off so when my pal, Ben Lincoln, asked me to go fifty-fifty on a mine in South America, I figured why not give it a try? The mine was s’posed to be played out but Ben had reason to believe otherwise.”
He paused for a long moment and stared blindly out the window. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the old man saw something out there that nobody else could see.
“So we took ourselves down to Venezuela and then up the Orinoco to this mine in the jungle somebody had worked an’ then abandoned.”
He paused again, this time for so long that Gray moved toward him. “Uncle?” he said softly.
Jonas looked at him. “Yeah. I’m just thinkin’ back.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said briskly, “turned out Ben was mistaken. We found some gold, but not enough. So Ben and me, we decided to end the partnership.”
Gray took another look at the rock. It was an interesting story, but what did it have to do with him? Jonas was still talking, something about him and Ben Lincoln, how they’d gone their separate ways and he’d come back to build Espada. Gray shot a surreptitious glance at his watch. An hour had gone by. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t make that flight to New York.
“Dammit, boy, how about payin’ some attention here?”
Gray’s head came up. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You know,” he said, as carefully as he could, “I don’t like being called `boy.’ And I have been paying attention. I’m here, aren’t I, when I should be meeting with a client—and I still don’t know why in hell I came. What do you want, Jonas?”
“I’m getting to that.” The old man hesitated. “Ben died a long time back. A few months ago, I heard—I heard he had some kin. A granddaughter.”
“And? What does any of this have to do with me?”
The old man’s eyes met his. “I’ve owed a debt to Ben all these years, and I’m a man always pays his debts.”
Gray’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late to worry about repaying this one, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t never too late to do the right thing, Graham. You live as long as me, you might just figure that out for yourself.”
“What kind of debt?”
“A debt, dammit,” Jonas said irritably. “What’s the difference?”
Things were starting to make sense. His uncle owed money to a man who was dead. For all he knew, he’d cheated Ben Lincoln out of some gold. Maybe he’d gone back later and found the mother lode. Maybe he’d done it without ever telling Ben Lincoln. Or maybe he’d palmed a couple of aces when they played cards. Knowing Jonas, anything was possible.
Now, with death looming ahead, he was having an attack of conscience. He wanted to make things right and he didn’t want his sons or even his own lawyer to know about it for fear it would tarnish his image. Gray thought of telling him that there wasn’t anything that could do more damage to an image like his, but what would be the point? The old man really didn’t have much time left. It wouldn’t hurt to do this simple thing for him.
“Okay,” he said. He sat down again, picked up his briefcase and snapped it open. “You tell me the granddaughter’s name, give me her address, and—”
“Don’t know her address.”
Gray sighed. “That’s all right. Her name will probably be enough. I’ve got a couple of private investigators I use all the time. They’ll find her.”
“Don’t know her name, neither.”
“You don’t know her name?” Gray repeated, trying to sound patient.
“Jes’ said that, didn’t I?”
“Okay. Okay, then, just tell me whatever you can about this Ben Lincoln. Where he was from. Where he went after you and he broke up the partnership. Anything you remember.”
“Here.” Jonas plucked a manila envelope from the top of his desk. “Figured you’d want whatever information I got. Wrote it all down for you.”
Gray took the envelope and placed it in his briefcase. “Fine.” He uncapped a pen, put a yellow legal pad on his knees. “These guys I know will find Lincoln’s granddaughter.”
Jonas nodded. “I was counting on that.”
“And how do you want to handle this? After they’ve found her, do you want to mail her a check? Or do you want it hand-delivered?”
“A check?”
“Yes,” Gray said, trying to disguise his impatience. “For his granddaughter. You want to keep it impersonal, or—”
“I don’t intend to give the girl a check. If she’s Ben’s offspring, if she’s a decent woman, I’ll want to meet her. Write her into my will.”
Gray looked up. Jonas was standing over him, one bony hand curled around the back of a chair. His eyes were flat, his mouth a grim line, but a dark blue vein throbbed in his papery temple. Something was going on here, something more than the old man had told him, but what?
“You want to write her into your will?”
“You deaf, counselor? How come I have to repeat everything I say?”
Oh, yeah. Definitely something was going on. There was the look on Jonas’s face. The sudden ringing tone to his voice. More to the point, the on-again, off-again accent had just taken a hike, and that was always meaningful.
Gray capped the pen, placed it and the legal pad inside the briefcase and stood up. He’d been as tall as Jonas for years; now, he towered over him. It was a small but decided advantage, and wasn’t that a crazy thing to think?
“And how will you be sure she’s a decent woman, Uncle?”
Jonas’s mouth curved at the corners. “I’ll rely on your reports, nephew. What else would I do?”
“Now, wait just a minute. I’m willing to use one of my investigators to locate this woman, but if you intend to base your decision on the findings of a private detective…forget it. I won’t take responsibility for somebody else’s opinion of an unknown woman’s moral fiber—assuming the investigator finds her at all.”
“He’ll find her. You just told me he would.”
Hell. Gray ran a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll put the best man I can think of on the case.”
“I’ve already done that, Graham. I’ve put you on it.” Jonas seemed to stand a little taller. “Your investigator will do the footwork.” He grinned, and suddenly he didn’t look quite so frail and old. “Wouldn’t expect somethin’ so down and dirty of you, boy. But you’re the one who’s gonna verify what the man says. You’ll take a good, hard look at the lady once she’s found. Observe her. Talk to her, check her out every which way. An’ when you know what she’s really like, why then, nephew, you’ll report back to me and tell me everythin’ I need to know.” Jonas strolled to his chair, sat down and picked up his tumbler of bourbon. “Way I figure it, the whole thing shouldn’t take you no more’n a couple of weeks.”
“Jonas.” Gray spoke gently. “Look, I’d like to help you. But surely you understand that I have a law practice. Clients. I have obligations, and I can’t just—”
“You got an obligation to me, boy. Maybe it’s time you knew that.”
Gray narrowed his eyes. There was an ominous sound to the words. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
Jonas got up, walked to the sideboard and refilled his glass. “You never did get along with your old man, did you? Never did cotton to the idea of sittin’ around, watchin’ him grovel to me.” He sipped the bourbon, smiled over the rim of the tumbler. “You ever stop to think how nice it was, gettin’ away from here when you was, what, eighteen? When you went away to that there fancy college in New Hampshire?”
“I was seventeen,” Gray said coldly. “And what does that have to do with this conversation?”
“An’ how ‘bout that law dee-ploma?” Jonas sighed. “The way I hear it, ain’t ever’body can afford a Yale law dee-gree.”
The hair on the nape of Gray’s neck was rising again. “I had full scholarships to both Dartmouth and Yale.”
Jonas chuckled. “Oh my, yes. You was a smart kid, Graham. You won them scholarships, fair and square.” His smile faded. “‘Course, you never did give too much thought as to who funded those scholarships, did you?”
Gray stared at his uncle. He felt as if the floor were dropping from under his feet. “You?” he said hoarsely. “You funded them?”
“And the pocket money that went along with them.” The old man plucked what remained of his cigar from a heavy glass ashtray and stuck it between his teeth. “Your father did the right thing, son. He come to me, said you was smart and he couldn’t afford to do right by you.”
That his father had once said something good about him didn’t seem to matter half as much as learning that he’d gotten where he was today—wherever in hell that might be—courtesy of the very man he’d grown up despising. Gray could feel a cold, hard knot forming in his gut.
“And now,” he said softly, “you’re calling in your markers.”
His uncle shrugged. “Only if you make it seem that way.”
Gray laughed. “Only if I make it seem…? You are some piece of work, Jonas, you know that? You’re blackmailing me into taking God only knows how much time out of my life so you can soothe your conscience before you die, and you say it’s payback time only if I make it seem that way?” His laughter stopped abruptly. “I don’t suppose you’d settle for me writing out a check for whatever I owe you… No,” he said grimly, when Jonas chuckled, “no, I guess not.” Anger flooded through him and he balled his hands into fists, jammed his fists into his pockets before he did something he knew he’d regret. “I’ve got news for you, old man. You don’t need to be concerned with your conscience because the fact is, you never had one.”
Jonas took the cigar from his mouth and set it back into the ashtray. “Yes,” he said softly, “I do, even if it seems to be catching up years too late.” He walked toward Gray, his gaze locked to the younger man’s, his hand outstretched. “You do this, we’ll call things even.”
Gray held his uncle’s eyes for a long minute. Then he looked pointedly at the outstretched hand, ignored it and reached, instead, for his briefcase.
“You’re damned right we will,” he said, and he pulled open the door and marched down the hall, hating Jonas, hating himself, but most of all hating his own father, a man he’d sworn he’d never emulate, because here he was, dancing to a tune Jonas Baron played and stuck with dancing straight to the very last note.
CHAPTER TWO (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
GRAY boarded the flight to New York still tight-lipped with rage.
If anybody had asked him how he’d gotten where he was today, a partner in one of New York’s top law firms at such a relatively young age, he’d have said he’d done it all on his own. Good grades in college had led to his acceptance at Yale Law. A straight A average there and a stint writing for the Law Review had won him a clerkship with a Federal judge and then interviews at a number of important firms. He’d picked the one where he’d figured he’d have a straight shot at the top after putting in the requisite seventy-five hours a week of grunt work for a couple of years. He’d been right. Those years got him noticed; he landed a partnership even sooner than he expected without having to curry favors from anybody. Watching his father go through life as a suck-up had convinced him he’d sooner end up flipping burgers than repeat Leighton’s pattern.
Now it looked as if he’d been blissfully living a lie, that his successes were all traceable to Jonas’s largesse. Okay. Maybe that was an overstatement. He’d made it to where he was on his own, but his uncle’s money was the reason he’d been able to get his foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He was just where he’d sworn he’d never be, beholden to the old man, and now Jonas was calling in the debt.
“Sir?”
But facts were facts. You couldn’t change them; you could only use them to serve your client’s best interests. That was one of the things he’d learned in law school. First, make a dispassionate assessment of a case. Then use your knowledge to get the outcome you wanted. Well, he was his own client right now, and what would serve his interests was to do what had to be done so he could get on with his own life.
Truth was, he wouldn’t have to spend much time dealing with Jonas’s situation. He had all sorts of contacts, including private investigators whose fields of expertise involved tracking people even if the trail was old and cold. Actually he didn’t have to do much of anything personally except give Jonas’s information to one of those people, then sit back and wait for the answers to drop in his lap.
Then, if—and it was a huge “if,” considering that Jonas didn’t even know if this Ben Lincoln actually had a granddaughter—if there was such a woman, and if a P.I. could find her, Gray would meet her, spend ten minutes in conversation before contacting his uncle.
“Mr. Baron?”
What the old man did with his money was none of his business. All he wanted was to erase this debt. Hell had to be going through life, knowing you had an obligation to Jonas Baron.
“Mr. Baron. Sir, would you like to see the lunch menu?”
Gray looked up. The flight attendant, smiling politely, leaned toward him. For the first time since he’d stormed out of his uncle’s library, Gray felt good enough to smile back.
“Sure,” he said, “why not?”
Why not, indeed? A couple of days, maybe a week at the most, and he’d be able to tell Jonas to go scratch.
“Here’s the report on the woman you wanted to find,” he’d say. “And now, uncle, for all I give a damn, you can go straight to hell.”
It was such a welcome thought that he went right on smiling, even after the flight attendant placed the airline’s version of lunch in front of him.
* * *
The next morning Gray phoned Jack Ballard, a P.I. who’d done some good work for him in the past.
“I can come by on Monday,” Ballard said.
Gray said it would be better if he could come by right away. Ballard sighed, said he’d be there in about an hour. When he showed up, the men went through a couple of minutes of inconsequential talk before getting down to business. Gray said he’d been asked to do a favor for a client. He told Ballard only as much of the story as necessary, mostly that he wanted him to locate a woman whose only link to his client was through a relationship half a century old, and shoved Jonas’s still-sealed manila envelope across the desk.
Ballard lifted an eyebrow as he looked at it. “You didn’t open this to see what’s in it?”
Gray shrugged his shoulders. “You’re the detective. Not me.”
Ballard grinned, ripped the envelope open and peered inside. “Well, it looks as if there wasn’t all that much to see.”
Three pieces of paper fluttered onto the surface of Gray’s always-neat desk. One bore notes in what Gray recognized as Jonas’s hand. The other two were black-and-white photographs, the edges torn and yellowed. Ballard reached for the notes; Gray scooped up the pictures and looked at them.
The first was of two men dressed in suits, though neither man looked as if he belonged in one. They stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders and grinned into the camera. The men were in their thirties or early forties, strong and young. Curious, he turned the photo over. Ben and Jonas, Venezuela 1950. The words were scrawled across the back of the picture, again in his uncle’s handwriting.
Gray took another look at the photo.
Yeah, he could see it now. One of the men was definitely Jonas. The mouth, the eyes, the grin…none of that had changed. It was just weird to see him so young. Somehow, though he’d always thought of his uncle as fit and powerful, he’d never imagined him as anything but old. The other man, Ben Lincoln, had lighter hair and sharper features. Except for that, Jonas and he seemed like duplicates, tall and handsome and broad-shouldered, looking into the camera through eyes that said they already owned the world.
The second photo was of a woman. Gray flipped the picture over. Nora Lincoln, someone had printed on the back. She stood in a grassy square, maybe in a park somewhere, hands planted on slender hips, chin elevated in a posture of what seemed defiance. She was a pretty woman or she would have been, if she’d unbent just a little. Her expression was hard to read. Were her eyes cool? They seemed to be. Her hair was long and light-colored. It looked windblown and maybe in need of taming, but another look at those eyes and Gray figured everything about her had probably needed taming.
Two powerful, tough-looking men in the prime of life. And a woman who looked as if she’d be a challenge to either of them. Gray felt a stir of interest. What did these people have to do with a sample of ore from a Venezuelan gold mine?
“Well,” Ballard said, “this sure isn’t much to go on.”
He handed the handwritten page of notes to Gray. Ben Lincoln, date of birth unknown, place of birth unknown, had been married to a woman named Nora sometime around 1950. They’d been divorced early in 1952 and Nora had given birth to a child she’d named Orianna in the summer of that year. Orianna had given birth to a baby girl, too, in 1976 or ‘77. The father was unknown. The child had probably been born somewhere in southern Utah or northern Arizona. That baby girl, if she existed, if all the other information was correct, Jonas had written, would be Ben Lincoln’s granddaughter. But, he’d added, there was no way to be sure. Ben Lincoln had died a long time ago. He’d heard that Nora and Orianna were dead, too.
Gray turned the page over. The reverse side was blank. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Ballard said, and grinned. “This one’s gonna cost a bundle. I’ll have to hire a bunch of guys to do the legwork. There’ll probably be a couple of dozen leads to check out and the odds are good they’ll all go nowhere long before I can find something usable.” He tapped a pencil against his teeth. “We’re talking six figures here.”
Gray tossed the paper on the desk, tilted back his chair and folded his hands over his flat belly. “That’s okay, Jack. Just do it and send me the bill.” He smiled tightly. “Don’t worry about the cost.”
Ballard laughed. “I never do.”
“Good. My client deserves to pay through the nose.”
The investigator chuckled as he scooped the photos and the single sheet of information into the manila envelope, then got to his feet.
“You disappoint me, Gray. Here I thought you defense attorneys were supposed to be protective of your clients.”
“Nobody needs to protect this one,” Gray said. He rose, too, and came around his desk. “As always, this is confidential, okay?”
Ballard clapped his hand to his heart. “Man, you wound me. Aren’t I always the soul of discretion?”
He was right. Investigators didn’t last long if they weren’t discreet but Ballard was even more circumspect than most. It was one of the reasons Gray employed him.
“Yes, you are.” Gray held out his hand. “What I meant was, if you should manage to find this woman, don’t talk to her. Don’t let her know you’re watching her. Just keep everything under your hat. I’m supposed to check the lady out myself. Client’s orders.”
“No problem.”
The men shook hands. “Truth is, though, I suspect you’re not going to come up with anything.”
“The odds are that you’re right, but you know me. I’ll put all the stuff I don’t find into a fifty-page report, fit the report into a shiny binder and your client will be impressed.”
Both men grinned. “Keep me posted,” Gray said, and Jack promised that he would.
* * *
Two weeks later, Ballard phoned late one morning.
“Got some stuff,” he said.
Gray suggested they meet for lunch at a small Italian place midway between their offices.
“So,” Gray said, after they’d ordered, “what do you have? Information? Or fifty pages of B.S. in a shiny binder?”
Jack chuckled. “Information, surprisingly enough. Not enough to fill fifty pages, but solid.”
“You found Lincoln’s granddaughter?”
“No, not yet. But I figured you’d want an update. I found the town where Orianna Lincoln lived and died, and some people who knew her.”
“Orianna Lincoln,” Gray said. “So, even though she was born after Ben and Nora were divorced, he acknowledged the child as his flesh and blood?”
“Careful, counselor.” Ballard sat back as their first courses were served. “You’re leaping to conclusions. All I know is that Nora Lincoln put Ben Lincoln’s name on Orianna’s birth certificate.” He stabbed a grape tomato, lifted it to his mouth and chewed vigorously. “Orianna was born in ‘52, same as your uncle said, in a little town in Colorado. Her mother—Nora—died in an auto accident not long afterward. Orianna was bounced from foster home to foster home, grew up into what you might expect.”
“Her father didn’t raise her?”
“Ben Lincoln? No. He lit out for Alaska in ‘53, died up there in a blizzard a few years later. The kid—”
“Orianna.”
“Right. She grew up, got herself into a little trouble. Nothing much, just some shoplifting, a little grass, a couple of prostitution convictions.”
“Sounds like a sweetheart.”
“Right. NCIC—the National Criminal Investigation Center—has her getting busted for petty crap all over the southwest. Eventually she ended up with some bozo in Fort Stockton, Texas. He walked out on her and the next record we have shows she set up housekeeping in a trailer park in a place called Queen City, up in the mountains in northern Arizona.”
“Alone?”
“Yup.” Ballard speared another tomato and grinned. “But that didn’t keep her from leading a full life, if you get my drift.” The detective took a sip of water, swallowed and leaned over the table. “The lady believed in an open door policy. One man in, another out, no stopping to take a breather in-between. No kids to slow her down until 1976, when something must have gone wrong with her planning. She gave birth to a girl she named Dawn.”
Gray raised his eyebrows. “Classy name.”
“Yeah, and I figure that was all that was classy in the kid’s life. Dawn lived in the trailer with mama until she was seventeen. Then she married a local name of…” Ballard reached into his breast pocket and took out a small leather notebook. “Name of Kitteridge. Harman Kitteridge.”
“In Queen City?”
“Yup, Queen City. Two traffic lights and half a dozen cheap bars. And local branches of every whacko political organization you ever heard of.” He grinned. “Plus some you’re lucky you haven’t.”
Gray put down his fork. “It sounds like heaven.”
“You got that right. Two days there, I was ready to grab a rifle and go looking for black helicopters. Kitteridge lives on the outskirts of town, on top of a mountain. He’s got a cabin up there. Apparently his grandpappy built it with his own hands.” Ballard put down his notebook and turned his attention to his salad. “You can almost hear the banjoes playing in the background.”
Gray nodded, picked up his fork and poked at his antipasto. Just what he needed, he thought glumly, a trip to the ass end of nowhere for a stimulating conversation with Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. If he’d thought about her at all during the last weeks, he’d imagined a more up-to-date version of that defiant, almost beautiful woman in the photo, but this conversation had put things in perspective. He could almost envision Dawn Kitteridge, country twang, lank hair, bare feet, gingham dress and all.
“Lucky Dawn,” he said, “she got to trade her trailer for a shack.”
“Yeah, she got herself a shack, and a hubby ten years older than she is.” Ballard paused as the waiter cleared away their appetizers and served their main courses. “But she got tired of both,” he said, tucking into his spaghetti carbonara. “She left Kitteridge and the mountain almost four years ago.”
Gray looked up from his pasta alla vongole. “She missed the trailer park?”
“If you mean, did she go back there, the answer’s no.”
“Damn,” Gray said with a little grin, “and here I was, happily anticipating a trip to a sophisticated metropolis called Queen City.”
“Well, actually, I don’t know where you’re going to be taking that trip to meet up with the little lady—that is still your intention, isn’t it? ‘Cause the thing is, she didn’t exactly leave a forwarding address.”
Gray put down his fork. He’d been telling himself this was all over, that he’d go to Arizona, spend an hour talking with Lincoln’s granddaughter, then fly to Espada and end his unwanted obligation to his uncle.
“Are you saying you don’t know where she is?”
“I’m saying I haven’t located her yet, but I will.”
“Damn.” Gray shoved his plate aside. All at once, he had no appetite. “How much longer will it take?”
Ballard shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. Four years is a long time and when the lady left, she seemed determined to cover her tracks.”
“Kitteridge doesn’t know where she went?”
“I didn’t talk to him. Not yet, anyway. He was out of town but from what I picked up from local chitchat, he has no idea what happened to her.” Ballard patted his lips with his napkin. “Hey, don’t look so sour. I promise, we’ll find her. I’ve got three men looking for her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gray sighed, sat back and rubbed his hand over his forehead. “I just don’t want this to drag on forever.”
“You said money wasn’t a problem.”
“It isn’t. Time is my concern. I want to get this done with.”
“Gray, my man, don’t I always deliver?”
It was true. Gray had no doubt that Jack would find Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. He just had to be patient.
“Yeah, you do. Look, put another couple of people on it, okay? Do whatever it takes to locate the lady.”
“Absolutely.”
“Meanwhile, what’s this Harlan Kitteridge like?”
“It’s Harman. I told you, I didn’t meet him, but I did some checking. He’s got some stuff on his record.”
“Such as?”
Ballard opened his notebook again. “Some DWIs. Two bar fights. He broke up a guy pretty bad in one of them but witnesses said it was self-defense so, you know, case closed. An assault on a woman he’d been living with. Beat her up and she called the cops but when it came to the courtroom, she said she’d hurt herself taking a tumble down the stairs and all she wanted was Harman out of the place.” Jack looked up. “Nothing once he married our girl. Dawn either swings a heavy bat or she reformed him.”
“Yes,” Gray said lightly. “They sound like a real nice couple.”
The bus boy cleared their places. The waiter stopped by. Gray ordered espresso; Ballard ordered a cappuccino and cheesecake.
“So,” Ballard said, “the next thing I’m going to do is fly on back to Queen City and have a chat with Mr. Kitteridge. He’s on his mountain again.”
“I thought you said he doesn’t know where his wife is.”
“I said that’s what the town says. Besides, even if he doesn’t, maybe he can give us some clues. Maybe she talked about wanting to see someplace special. Maybe she has friends in places outside Queen City.” The investigator peered at the slice of cake the waiter put in front of him, then dug into it. “At the very least, he can probably fill in some blank spaces while my guys look for her.”
“That sounds reasonable, I guess.”
“Trust me, Gray. It is reasonable. Just tell your client to keep his pants on, okay?”
Gray laughed. “I’m sure he’ll love the advice, Jack. Anything else?”
“Nope. Oh. Yeah, before I forget…” He patted one breast pocket and then the other. “Here,” he said, and held out a small white envelope.
“What’s this?” Gray opened the envelope. Inside were the photo of Jonas and Ben, and the one of Nora Lincoln. “Ah. The pictures. You don’t need them anymore?”
“Not really. Besides, I made copies. I figured your client might want these back.”
Gray nodded and pocketed the photos. “You’ve done fine, Jack. To be honest, I didn’t think we had a chance of coming up with anything, but you’ve managed to find the girl.”
“Not yet. I found where she lived and who she lived with.” Ballard took a sip of his cappuccino. “She’s still among the missing.”
“Among the…” Gray looked up. “You think something happened to her? That Kitteridge did something?”
“Hell, no. Jeez, you’ve been associating with lowlife too long. No, Gray. I just mean I haven’t located her yet. But I will.”
“Fine. Call me when you do. In fact, call me after you go to Queen City and speak with Harman Kitteridge. I have to admit, I’m curious.”
Ballard grinned. “Your wish is my command, counselor. Say, is this lunch on your client’s expense account?”
“Why?”
“You think I could have another slice of that cheesecake?”
* * *
That night, Gray phoned Jonas and gave him a brief update. When he finished, there was a long silence. Then his uncle cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, “the girl really exists.”
“Yeah. So it would seem. Do you still want her found?”
“Yes, of course. Find her, talk to her, see what she’s like…” Another silence. “This husband of hers. He doesn’t sound like anybody’s idea of Prince Charming.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“You’re gonna meet with him?”
“No,” Gray said coldly, “I am not. The investigator I hired will do that. There’s no reason for me to talk to the man.”
“You got a good way of seein’ inside people.”
Gray laughed. “Don’t try to con me, okay? If I did, I’d have figured out, years back, that the only way my father could have come up with money for my schooling was by begging it from you.”
“You know, boy,” Jonas said, his voice hardening, “maybe you ought to be grateful he did, otherwise what would you be doin’ right now? Not livin’ high on the hog in New York City, I bet.”
“I’ll call you when I know more,” Gray said, and hung up the phone.
Hours later, he gave up trying to sleep. The old man certainly had a way of getting to the heart of a thing. He’d grown up disliking Texas and despising his uncle, congratulated himself for getting free of both…and now it turned out he hadn’t actually escaped either one.
He went into the kitchen, switched on the light, took the pictures Jack Ballard had given him from the kitchen table and stared at the faces frozen in time.
There was more to this tale than his uncle admitted. Gray had suspected it. Now, he was sure of it. He’d been a lawyer long enough to sense when a client was omitting pieces of a story. Sometimes, you were happy to leave it like that. You wanted the truth, but you didn’t want to hear things that might keep you from doing the best possible job. Defending a man against a charge of murder was a lot easier when you believed he hadn’t actually committed it. There was no murder involved here but something dark and distant was gnawing at Jonas’s innards. And, like it or not, he was being drawn further and further into the situation.
He sat down at the table and stared at the picture of Jonas and Ben Lincoln. Was there a whisper of hostility hidden inside those smiles? And the picture of Nora Lincoln. He touched the tip of his finger to her face. Were her eyes cool, or were they infinitely sad? Maybe that chin wasn’t tilted in defiance but in self-defense.
“Dammit,” Gray said, and kicked back his chair. What did it matter? The story, whatever it was, dated back half a century. And it sure as hell didn’t involve him. He had better things to think about than a dead woman who might have a secret in her eyes and a granddaughter who had run away from a mountain in the middle of nowhere.
The case that had consumed his time for the past few months was winding down. Tomorrow, he’d present his closing argument to the jury. His client would walk free. Gray wasn’t foolish enough to think you could predict how a case would end but sometimes you could make a pretty shrewd guess. His client had been accused of felonious assault with intent to kill; he’d sworn that the witnesses had misidentified him. Gray hadn’t been concerned with the man’s guilt or innocence. That wasn’t his job. His duty was to convince the jury that the witnesses were wrong, that there was reasonable doubt that it was not his client who had committed the crime. Every instinct he had assured him that he’d done that.
He’d be free of the case in a few days. He’d thought about taking a break, getting away from the city and the stress of his job, maybe doing something different enough to get the juices flowing so he’d feel the way he once had about his work. He’d even had a talk with his travel agent, who had given him a stack of brochures about things that ranged from running the rapids in Alaska to mountain trekking in Nepal.
He’d been to Alaska. And there were mountains in northern Arizona.
He looked at the photo of Nora Lincoln. What would she think, if she knew her granddaughter had spent most of her life in a trailer park? That she’d married a man with an arrest history and then left him?
“Life sucks,” Gray said softly, “and then you die.”
He went into his study, flicked on the light, looked up Jack Ballard’s phone number in his address book and dialed it. Ballard answered on the second ring.
“It’s late,” Ballard said in a gravelly voice. “This better be good.”
“Jack, it’s Gray Baron. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour but…” Gray cleared his throat. “You know that trip you were going to make to Arizona? The thing is, my client—well, I have a personal connection to him. And, as a sort of favor, I’ve decided to talk with Kitteridge myself. Uh-huh. I’m going to fly out there, probably within the next couple of days. No, no, I’m not pulling you off the case, Jack. Far from it. I want you to locate Dawn Kitteridge for me. Absolutely. Right. Yes, do it just the way I asked. Find her, but don’t approach her. You just tell me where the lady is and I’ll take it from there. Great. Thanks, Jack. I appreciate it.”
Gray hung up the phone and headed back to bed.
Definitely, he could use the change in routine. He was starting to get curious about where this was really going. Jonas might be dying but he still couldn’t quite accept him as a man bothered by a prickly conscience, especially when it involved something more than fifty years old. And then there was that look in Nora Lincoln’s eyes. Would he see it in her granddaughter’s eyes, too? Gray needed to find out, not for Jonas but for himself.
Three days later, with another acquittal in his files and the directions to Queen City in his pocket, Gray flew to Arizona.
CHAPTER THREE (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
IF TEXAS was hot, Arizona was the gateway to hell.
Gray flew into Phoenix in early afternoon. He could have saved time by flying into Flagstaff but he decided that the extra half day it would take him to reach his destination was worth it. He’d get the chance to decompress after the rigors of the trial and to work on the excuse he’d thought of to explain to her husband why he was looking for Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.
He picked up his rental car and dumped his bag in the trunk. Desert heat was dry heat, people always said, as if without humidity a temperature of one hundred and six would be no problem. Gray was dressed for comfort in chinos and a white shirt with an open collar and rolled up sleeves but he still felt as if he was standing in front of an open furnace.
He set the AC on high and headed north on Highway 17.
After a while, the land opened up into true desert, broken only by occasional roads that seemed to arrow through the scrub and cactus toward the distant mountains. Eventually the highway began to climb. Pines towered overhead; patches of snow glistened on the higher ridges. Gray turned off the air-conditioning, put down the window and drew in deep breaths of cool, clean air.
The countryside was spectacular, and all that open space coupled with the scent of pine was soothing. He could almost feel his tension starting to drain away. Coming here to see Harman Kitteridge had been the right decision. He could satisfy his curiosity, ask some questions Jack couldn’t because there had been no reason to tell him he was looking into this for his uncle. He didn’t plan on telling Kitteridge, either. It was always best to play your cards close to your chest.
Gray took one hand off the wheel, dug in his pocket and took out the map his travel agent had faxed him. She’d booked him into a place called the Drop-On Inn for the night. That was the only place available in the vicinity of Queen City, she’d written, and he’d visualized how her elegant eyebrows must have lifted at the news that he was going to such a hole in the wall. She’d also included the names of a couple of resort hotels between Flagstaff and Queen City, along with a polite note saying he might prefer one of them to the Drop-On Inn.
Gray knew she was probably right but he figured it would be simpler to stay near Queen City for the night. With luck, he’d meet with Kitteridge in the morning, and how long could a conversation with the man possibly take? An hour? Two? After that, he might just check out some of those hotels his agent had mentioned. This was beautiful country, high, rugged and untouched. A little time off here could be just what he needed.
He turned on the radio, searched for a station that played the kind of cool jazz he liked and settled instead for some guy singing about a love gone wrong. A couple of songs later, he was humming along with the melody. Yessir, making this trip had been a fine idea.
The Drop-On Inn dimmed his enthusiasm only a little. The sign out front said Motel but it was just ten small rooms strung together like links of sausage. Still, the place was clean, his room had a TV that received two channels, and there was even a caf;aae next door. Gray and a trucker who apparently owned the eighteen-wheeler parked at the other end of the motel were the only customers. He ordered a steak that overflowed the plate and mashed potatoes floating in enough butter to make him feel guilty so he passed on dessert, had a cup of coffee, went back to his room and slept as well as a man could when his feet hung off the end of the mattress.
He awoke to sunshine but by the time he’d finished off a stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee at the caf;aae, a bank of charcoal clouds had rolled in. Clouds or not, he felt pretty good when he set off for Queen City. He’d definitely make a short vacation out of this trip. If there was a camping equipment store in Queen City, he’d stop there after he finished with Kitteridge, buy himself some boots and some simple gear, use one of the hotels his agent had recommended as a base and head into the mountains. Gray liked the isolation of hiking but he also liked hot tubs, soft beds and the company of beautiful women. A few days in the wilderness, followed by another few days in a luxury resort, would feel just fine.
He found the station that played country love songs again and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. It was hard to believe he’d wasted time the other night, sitting in his apartment, looking at a picture of a dead woman and speculating about what kind of life she’d have led, or what life she’d have wanted for her granddaughter.
The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as he passed a sign welcoming him to Queen City, population 3,400 and home of the Patriots Regional High School Championship Football Team. Jack Ballard had given him a phone number for Harman Kitteridge. Gray had laughed and jokingly expressed surprise that the cabin would have a phone and electricity. Now, slowing for the first of the two traffic lights Ballard had mentioned, he thought the same thing again. This time, he meant it.
To call this place a city was not just an overstatement, it was a pathetic dream.
Queen City had seen better times. At least half of the shops on Main Street were vacant. The only living creature in sight was a dog relieving himself on a teetering pile of boxes in front of a boarded-up store. If it was a comment on the town, Gray agreed with it. Even the mountains that ringed Queen City were depressing. Their colors were sullen and their looming presence made him feel claustrophobic.
He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.
Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Harman Kitteridge?”
“What’s it to you?”
So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.
“My name is Gray Baron.”
“I don’t want none.”
“Excuse me?”
“Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”
“I’m not a salesman, mister—”
Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.
“Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”
“You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”
“It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”
“My what?”
“Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”
There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.
“I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”
“What do you want with my wife?”
“I’d like to talk with her.”
“So did that other guy, couple of weeks ago, folks tell me. Or are you gonna claim you and he don’t know about each other?”
Gray thought about playing dumb and decided it would only heighten Kitteridge’s mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”
“And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”
“I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”
“She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”
Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.
“Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”
“You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”
“No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”
“Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”
“What in hell for?”
“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”
“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”
Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.
“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”
“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”
“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”
Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”
“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.
Kitteridge hung up. Gray let out a breath, checked for nonexistent traffic and drove across the road to the diner.
Almost twenty minutes later, he was nursing a cup of inky black liquid the waitress had poured him when the door opened. A man stepped inside. He was maybe six-three with a rugged, work-hardened body and a face Gray figured men would call nasty and some women would call strong. The guy shook himself like a wet dog as the door swung shut, thumbed an oily-looking lock of black hair from his forehead and scanned the room even though Gray and the waitress were the only people in it.
“Coffee,” he barked in the general direction of the counter. He walked toward Gray with a loping swagger. “You Baron?”
Gray got to his feet. “Yes.” He forced himself to hold out his hand. He had the irrational feeling he’d want to wipe it off after Kitteridge shook it. “Harman Kitteridge?”
Kitteridge looked at Gray’s hand as if he’d never seen a lawyer’s hand without a subpoena in it before. Then he grasped it and fixed his eyes on Gray’s.
“That’s my name.”
He squeezed Gray’s hand hard. Harder, when Gray didn’t flinch. What Gray really wanted to do was laugh. Was he actually being invited to have a pissing contest in a run-down diner on Main Street, U.S.A.? He was going to have some interesting tales to tell when he got back to New York.
Kitteridge grunted. Gray wasn’t sure if it was a sign of dissatisfaction or pleasure. He let go of Gray’s hand, slid into the opposite banquette and sat back while the waitress served his coffee. He poured in cream, added half a dozen heaping teaspoons of sugar, stirred the coagulating mess and licked the spoon before dropping it on the table.
“What’s this all about, Baron?”
“It’s about your wife’s grandfather’s estate.”
“What about it?”
“Sorry. I can’t discuss it with anyone but her.” Gray looked past Kitteridge, as if he expected to see Dawn standing near the door. “Where is she? I told you to bring her with you.”
Minutes passed. Kitteridge’s stare was filled with venom. Finally he drank some coffee, then put down his cup.
“She ain’t here.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Listen, man, my wife is out of town. You want to waste this whole trip?” Kitteridge grinned, showing off sharp, yellowing teeth. “Or you want me to think you always hang around places like this diner and Queen City?”
Okay. Kitteridge wasn’t really stupid. Gray could only hope he was greedy, greedy enough to swallow the story he was about to tell him. It was one part truth, nine parts fantasy, and—he hoped—sufficient to get information without giving any.
“Well, I guess it won’t hurt if I fill you in on some of the details. This is about Ben Lincoln.”
“Who the hell is Ben Lincoln?”
Gray reminded himself that losing his temper and telling this asshole that he was an asshole would be counterproductive.
“Your wife’s grandfather,” he said calmly. “On her mother’s side.”
“What about her mother?” Kitteridge’s eyes narrowed. “Who you been talkin’ to?”
Definitely an asshole, but he needed him. Take it easy, Gray told himself, and just keep smiling.
“Nobody. I’m trying to give you some background, make sure you understand the importance of this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got that. Go on. What’s the deal?”
“Your wife’s grandfather left her something in his will.”
Gray could almost see the dollar signs light up in Kitteridge’s eyes. “Dawn’s got money comin’?”
“The inheritance isn’t much. Not by most standards. Look, I can’t actually discuss it with you, so if you’d just tell me where I can find your wife—”
Kitteridge shot out a hand and grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt. “Listen here, Mr. Lawyer, I’ve about had it with your games. How much is comin’ to her? I’m her husband. I got the right to know.”
Gray closed his hand around Harman’s wrist and pressed his thumb against a pulse point. He could see the shock in the other man’s face as he began exerting pressure. When he was a kid, he’d worked his father’s pathetic excuse of a ranch, branding cows, neutering bulls, breaking the few horses Jonas usually let Leighton buy for next to nothing each year. He’d played rugby at Princeton, soccer at Yale, and as soon as he found himself chafing at the sedentary boundaries imposed by his profession, he’d taken up handball, racquetball and Japanese aikido. His body was honed and hard, his grip strong and unyielding and he knew, with a little rush of satisfaction, that the prick seated across from him had not expected any of it.
“Let go of the shirt, Kitteridge,” he said softly. “Right now, or you won’t be able to use that hand for a month.”
Kitteridge stared at him through eyes flat with pain and rage. After a minute, he smiled. It made him look like a Halloween mask designed to scare the pants off kids who had seen one horror movie too many.
“Sure. No harm meant.”
Kitteridge dropped his hand to the table. Gray let him settle his shoulders back against the cracked vinyl of the banquette.
“Guess we got ourselves off to a poor start, Baron. It’s just that I don’t like somebody comin’ around, askin’ about my wife without me knowin’ what’s up.”
Gray nodded. He could still feel his blood pumping hot and fast through his veins but he was here for information and beating the stupid son of a bitch across from him to a pulp wasn’t the way to get it.
“Yeah. Okay. I understand, but you need to understand my position. I’m legally charged with seeing to it that your wife gets what’s coming to her.”
“Trust me, Baron. I want her to get what’s comin’ to her, too.”
Harman saw the lawyer’s eyes narrow. Stupid, he told himself, stupid, stupid. He had to watch what he said around this slick bastard. The guy wasn’t from around here. He was from a big city, Phoenix or L.A. or even someplace on the East Coast. He wasn’t as easy as he looked, either. He had a lazy smile, clean fingernails, a way of talking that made him sound as if he’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he also had an iron grip and a hardness to him that had been a surprise. And what in hell was this talk about that bitch, Dawn, and some kind of inheritance?
He still had trouble saying Dawn’s name, even thinking it, without wanting to put his fist through the wall. Goddamn slut, taking off in the middle of the night, walking out on him as if she had the right to do whatever she wanted. He should have slapped her around more often. That would have kept her in line, same as it had done for her mama.
And all these damn fool questions about Dawn’s grandfather. She’d never talked about a grandfather. Hell, she hadn’t talked about her own mama much, never mind anybody else, and now, from out of nowhere, she had a grandpa who had left her money? Hot damn, that was something to think about. Some dead presidents would go a long way toward making up for what the bitch had done to him, leaving him with an empty bed, leaving him to cook and clean for himself, stealing his son even though he’d been able to see, even four years back, that the kid was going to grow up soft, like his mother.
Well, he’d have changed that. He’d still change it, when he found Dawn. And he would. He’d always intended to; he’d be damned if he’d let her think she could get away with walking out on him. But now, if there was money on the line, there was more reason than ever to find his sweet wife.
If she had money coming, it belonged to him. A man had the right to be king in his home. Dawn had never understood that but she would, once he got her back. He’d bring her home to the mountain, beat the crap out of her and the kid, too, until they both understood he was the one law in their lives.
He lifted his coffee cup, took a sip of the rapidly cooling liquid and did his best to conjure up a smile.
“Dawn’s going to be real upset when she finds out you was here and she wasn’t.”
Gray nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“‘Course, there ain’t no real problem. You probably got some papers for her to sign, right?”
Gray gave another nod, more noncommittal than the first.
“Well, you can leave ‘em with me. I’ll see to it she puts her name where she ought to and mails them to you.”
“Yeah. Well, I wish I could do that, Kitteridge, but the law…” Gray leaned forward and flashed a man-to-man smile. “As long as we’re being honest, I have to tell you that I talked with some people around town.”
Kitteridge’s eyes turned cold. “People ought to learn to keep their mouths shut.”
“They seem to think your wife left quite a while ago.”
“If she did, it ain’t nobody’s business but mine.”
“You’re wrong. It’s my business. I mean, this inheritance…” Gray sighed. “Well, that’s a pity.”
“I’m here,” Kitteridge said sharply. “And I’m her husband. Whatever’s comin’ to her should come to me. That’s only right.”
“I agree,” Gray said pleasantly, “but the law…”
The law, Harman thought. The goddamn law. What he ought to do was drag this son of a bitch attorney out of his seat, do it fast, before he knew what was happening, and beat the crap out of him—but that wouldn’t get him what he wanted. The question was, what would? The thing to do was calm down and think. What would soften up a hotshot lawyer? A little hearts and flowers, maybe. Yeah. A sad story, complete with violins. That might just do it.
“Okay,” Harman said. He wrapped his hands around his cup and looked down into its murky depths. “I’m gonna tell you the truth, Baron. I don’t talk about it much ‘cause it near to kills me to do it, but my wife run out and left me four years back.”
“Ah. That’s rough.”
“It is, for a fact.” Harman lifted wounded eyes, locked them on Gray’s. “She was everythin’ for me, you know? I loved her like I never loved another woman. But she weren’t no good. She catted around, paid no mind to her wifely obligations or to our son.”
That did it. He saw the lawyer’s eyes go dark.
“She had a child?” he said.
Harman pulled a sad face. “Oh, yeah. A little boy. Sweetest thing you can imagine, but she didn’t give no more thought to the kid than she did to me.”
“You mean, she didn’t take the boy with her when she left you?”
Harman didn’t even blink. “No.” Violins, sad stories and a leap to abandoned babies the lawyer had taken all by himself. Fine. Whatever would work. “You can see why I don’t talk about it much.”
Oh, and it was working. Baron was nodding in agreement, clearly thinking bad thoughts about a woman who had slept around and dumped her kid. Well, the sleeping around part was surely the truth, and there wasn’t a way in hell Baron would ever find out she’d taken the boy with her.
Harman took out his wallet. “See this?” He took out a dog-eared photo of a woman with a baby in her arms and pushed it across the table. “That’s what she left behind. That innocent babe. Boy’s seven now an’ there’s times he still wakes up in the middle of the night, cryin’ for his mama.”
It was the perfect touch. The lawyer was staring at the picture as if it was the Madonna and child.
“Yeah.” The attorney cleared his throat. “So, where is she? Where’d she go?”
“If I knew, don’t you think I’d have brought her back?” Harman’s mouth twisted. “Teach her a lesson for walkin’ out on me?” He saw the way Baron’s head came up. Dammit. He’d overplayed his hand. “I mean, I’d tell her how much she hurt me. How I still love her. How I miss her. How I ‘spect her to keep the promises she made when we was married, is what I’m saying.”
“The bottom line is that you don’t know where she is, do you, Kitteridge? That’s what I’m saying.”
Harman smiled slyly. “I don’t, no. But I bet a hotshot lawyer like you got ways to find her.”
“Maybe, but I’ll need your help.”
“Anythin’ I can do, you just ask.”
“You said she catted around. How about the names of some of the men she slept with?”
“Don’t actually got names. She was sneaky.”
“Well, how about places she’d been and liked, that she might have gone back to?”
“She never went nowhere. Not that I wouldn’t have taken her, if she’d been a good woman, but—”
“Places she talked about visiting,” Gray said impatiently. “Nothing? Come on, man. Think. Didn’t she ever look at a picture in a magazine or someplace on TV and say how much she’d like to go there?”
“If she spent time on such things, she was smart enough not to let me know. Wastin’ time makes the devil happy.”
Gray started to answer, thought better of it and, instead, took his wallet from his back pocket. Coming here had been pointless. He’d wasted two days and he didn’t know anything more about where to look for Dawn than when he’d started. The only thing he’d learned was that her husband was the shithead Ballard said he was, and that Dawn wasn’t much better. She’d slept around, run off, abandoned her child… So much for the lure of Nora Lincoln’s sad eyes and defiant chin, or for the fact that he’d thought he’d seen those same eyes, that same chin, in the photo Harman had shown him.
“Well, thanks for your time, Kitteridge.” Gray dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “I’ll give you my card. If you think of anything that might shed some light on your wife’s whereabouts…”
“Wait just a damn minute, Mr. Lawyer.”
Gray looked up. Kitteridge flashed a smile as phony as the wood graining in the plastic tabletop.
“I mean, you ain’t just gonna run off, are you? Now that I told you about my wife, surely you can tell me what her grandpa left her, right?” Harman looked around, then hunched his shoulders and bent over the table. “It’s only right and proper I should know. For the sake of my son, you understand?”
Gray had an answer ready but he made it look as if he didn’t. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose it’s okay, all things considered.”
Harman licked his lips. “How much?”
“He didn’t leave her money.”
“He didn’t… Ah. I got it. He left her a house, right? What do you call it, real estate?”
Gray tried to look soulful. “No,” he said, “no real estate. Actually your wife’s grandfather died broke.” Was it a lie? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. But the answer would defuse Harman’s curiosity. That was what counted.
“Broke?” Harman’s eyes narrowed. “Give me a break, Baron. You want me to believe you come here to tell my wife her grandpa didn’t leave her nothin’?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you did. You just told me the old man died broke.”
“But he did leave her something. A music box.” That part had come to him just this morning. He thought it sounded pretty good.
Harman’s face was a blank. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I guess it had sentimental value to him. It’s a nice music box, actually. Walnut, with mother of pearl inlay and a revolving dancer on the—”
“You want me to think you come all the way here to tell my wife she inherited a music box?” Harman said in a soft, ominous voice. “I guess you think I’m pretty stupid.”
“I don’t have any opinion of you,” Gray said pleasantly, lying through his teeth as he got to his feet. “You’re right about one thing, though. Given a choice, I sure wouldn’t have come all the way here but, as my client’s representative, I’m obligated to fulfill his wishes. He stipulated that I was to locate his granddaughter and give her the box. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Kitteridge. I’d love to have told you your wife was sitting on a fortune. Unfortunately, she’s not.”
Harman wanted to lunge over the table and stomp the crap out of the smart-ass city attorney. Instead he curled his hands into fists in his lap. It was the only way he could manage to smile.
“Well, that’s somethin’, ain’t it? And here I was, feelin’ good for my Dawn, thinkin’ she was comin’ into easy times. It just goes to show, you never do know, ain’t that right?” He stood up, put out his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Baron. Good luck, findin’ my wife.”
“Yeah. Same to you.”
“You get any word, you’ll let me know, right? My boy and I sure do miss her.”
“I will.” Gray took a card from his wallet and handed it to Kitteridge. “I wonder… Could I have that photo?”
“Photo?”
“Of your wife and son. It might help me identify her, if I find her.”
Harman smiled. “I’d like to help you, but it’s the only picture I got to remind me of her. It’s very valuable to me, if you know what I mean.”
The lawyer wasn’t dumb. He dug a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and Harman handed over the photo.
“I can use the money to buy somethin’ nice for the boy,” he said somberly. “You take care now, Mr. Baron. These roads can be slippery in the rain.”
He waited until the door closed after the attorney. Then he sank down on the banquette.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Did the man really think he’d fallen for that lie about a music box, or that he’d bought him off with a hundred bucks? There was lots more to this story. Nobody, especially not a lawyer from—Harman glared at the card—from New York City, came all this distance to tell a woman her grandpa had left her a wind-up toy.
Dawn had come into money, and probably one hell of a lot of it.
Harman got to his feet, walked to the counter and slid onto a stool. “Gimme two eggs,” he said to the waitress, “over easy. Bacon. Flapjacks.” He leaned toward her. “And more coffee, only it better not be this crap from the bottom of the pot, you understand?”
The girl damn near clicked her heels, which was just as it should be. The bible said it best. A woman was meant to obey. Wives, especially. And what a wife possessed belonged to her husband. Her body. Her spawn. All her earthly possessions.
Harman scowled as the waitress put a cup in front of him.
Dawn was coming into an inheritance, and it was only right and proper he was there to take care of it for her, and to take care of the boy, too, see he was raised up proper. It was time to find the bitch and put her four years of loose living at an end.
* * *
Outside, in the parking lot, Gray got behind the wheel of the rental car and drove a couple of miles north before he pulled onto the shoulder of the road, took out his cell phone and dialed Jack Ballard.
“Jack? Gray Baron here. I just met with Harman Kitteridge. Oh, yeah. He’s just what his rap sheet suggests. Mean. And stupid as the day is long, except when he thinks he smells money. Nope. He hasn’t a clue as to where Dawn is. Trust me, Jack. I had him salivating. If he knew, he’d have—You did?” Gray smiled and gave the steering wheel a light tap with his fist. “Las Vegas, huh? Terrific. Too bad you didn’t call me. I’d have been able to skip my scintillating meeting with Kitter—Oh. Did you? Well, I was in a diner at the ass end of nowhere, which is probably why your call wouldn’t go through. In fact, I’m losing you now. Jack? Jack…”
The line went dead. Gray put the phone into his pocket, felt something papery and took out the photo of Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge. She didn’t look much like a woman who would walk out on a man and a child, but that only went to show you how misleading a picture could be. He had a photo of his own mother tucked away at the bottom of a drawer. He’d found it years ago, when he was ten or eleven, and she hadn’t looked like a woman who would have done those things, either…but she had.
Gray checked his mirror, did a U-turn, sped straight through Queen City and headed south, to Flagstaff and the airport. Forget staying on for a few days. Ballard had found the woman. He’d fly home, put things on hold for a week, then fly to Vegas and check out Dawn Kitteridge, though it wouldn’t take much checking before he’d know what to tell Jonas. How much doubt could there be as to the morals of a woman who slept around and then deserted her son, and never mind the way she looked in that photo.
He knew all about women like that. His own mother had slept her way through Brazos Springs before she’d walked away, left him behind and never once looked back.
Gray stepped down hard on the gas. Soon, very soon, he’d be able to put this entire incident behind him and get on with his own life.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u6b9ce48b-5da7-5796-9234-127ffc740302)
Las Vegas, Nevada
DAWN’S alarm was set for six but when she opened her eyes, the bright green numbers on the clock’s face read 5:03.
Her heart pounded as she sat up and looked around her tiny bedroom. What had awakened her? Footsteps? A voice? The sound of someone outside the window? She held her breath and listened but she couldn’t hear anything. Nothing but silence.
She exhaled and fell back against the pillows with relief. That was what had awakened her. Not a noise. The silence. The AC had shut off. The unit was old and noisy. It died with startling regularity and when it did, the lack of sound was like an assault on her eardrums.
Even after four years, she still couldn’t decide what was better, noises that startled you or silence that shook you. No, that wasn’t true. You could get accustomed to noise. Silence was different. If it was too quiet, you started to hear things. A creak that might be a footstep. A tap that might mean someone was at the window. A whisper that could be a voice you prayed you’d never hear again…
“Stop it,” she said, and she sat up and tossed the covers aside.
The creaks were from the floorboards. Her apartment had been carved out of the first floor parlor and maid’s room of an old house, old by Vegas standards, anyway. The only thing tapping at the window was the branch of the indigo bush. She probably should have lopped the branch off when it first started growing toward the house, just as Cassie had suggested, but she was happy letting the Indigo go its own way.
She’d had to plead with the landlord to let her plant it. The woman had looked at her as if she was crazy but she’d finally said yeah, okay, you want an indigo bush? You buy it, plant it, take care of it, you can have it. Dawn had done all that and provided the tough little shrub with the nurturing it needed to gain a foothold, and it had thrived.
The Indigo had the right to grow in any direction it wanted. So did every living thing on the planet.
As for hearing that voice, Harman’s voice, well, it was better to be alert than complacent. Every now and then, she’d see some half-buried item in the paper about a woman who had run from a husband or a boyfriend, been found by him and beaten senseless. Or killed. And even as she’d feel pain for that poor, faceless woman, Dawn would know that what she’d just read was a reminder. She’d have to spend the rest of her life being careful, never letting down her guard, never forgetting that Harman was still out there, hating her because she’d done the unthinkable.
She’d defied him. Worse, she’d left him. That was the worst sin of all.
Her husband had owned a dog when she’d married him, a scared, skinny hound that made the mistake of creeping to her for comfort one day after Harman kicked it. Enraged, he’d beaten the poor thing half-senseless and when it ran away, he’d gone after it, dragged it back to the mountain and shot it.
“Bad enough it weren’t loyal to me,” he’d said, while she’d sobbed and begged him to spare the dog’s life. “What’s mine stays mine till I say otherwise. You got that, bitch?”
She should have left him then, but where would she have gone? She had no money, no job skills. Her mother was dead and even if she’d been alive, Orianna had never been able to help herself when a man abused her. How would she have helped her daughter?
Dawn swung her feet to the floor. What was wrong with her this morning? She hadn’t wasted this much time thinking about Harman in months. It was one thing to be cautious, another thing to be paranoid. Besides, thinking about him, worrying about what he might or might not do, only gave back some of the power he’d once wielded over her. She’d learned that sitting through some counseling sessions at the women’s shelter in Phoenix, the second stop in her flight four years back.
“Remember,” the counselor had said, “the best way to break with the past is to take control of your life. Educate yourself. Make plans. Learn to be independent. You are a whole person, no matter what your abuser wants you to think.”
Dawn had done all that. The proof was in what was going to happen today, her very first day on her own at her new job. That’s what she’d think about, not Harman.
The new job was going to be a challenge, but she was up to it. Keir thought so. Cassie did, too. Even Mary O’Connell had given her a wink a couple of days ago, when she’d breezed past the Special Services office where Dawn was standing at Jean’s shoulder, listening while she phoned to arrange for the Desert Song’s private jet to pick up a VIP and fly him from Boston to Vegas.
“Good luck,” Mrs. O’Connell had said softly, which had to mean that even the Duchess was aware she’d taken a more responsible position but then, not much that went on at the Song escaped the Duchess’s attention, even during the months she’d been ill.
“Thank you,” Dawn had replied, and the Duchess had smiled in that way of hers that made you feel as if she really cared about you.
Dawn laid out her clothes for the day. She ran her hand lightly over the blue jacket and beige skirt she’d bought with part of the clothing allowance that went with her new position. She just hoped she’d live up to everybody’s expectations.
“You’re going to be great at this,” Cassie kept saying. Keir had pretty much told her the same thing when he’d interviewed her. By then, she’d already passed the other hurdles: a clean employment record at the Song, votes of approval from Becky, who headed up Special Services, but Keir had the final say and what he’d said was, yes, the job was hers.
“You’re good with people,” he’d told her. “I think you’re going to be an excellent addition to the Special Services staff.”
Remembering, Dawn let out a breath. She hoped he was right. She really, really wanted this job. Better pay, which she sorely needed. Better hours, which she needed, too, and a bonus she’d never mentioned to anyone but Cassie.
She’d never really liked dealing cards, even though she’d been good at it. She had quick hands, she didn’t get ruffled. It was just that it always felt, well, wrong to be part of a process that separated people from their money, even in the classy area where she’d worked, the casino-within-a-casino at Desert Song, the high stakes tables where most of the players could easily lose tens of thousands of dollars without blinking.
“It’s just wrong,” she’d told Cassie one night over takeout Chinese.
Cassie put down her chopsticks and stared at her. “What’s wrong about it?”
“I don’t know. It just is.”
“That’s nuts,” Cassie replied bluntly. “What, are you gonna worry about jerks who have money to throw away?”
“I know,” Dawn said, “but—”
“But you grew up poor, like me.”
“Well, yes. But that’s not all of it. I mean, I know it’s their money. It’s just that it seems so—so—”
“Wong,” Cassie said, so deadpan that Dawn couldn’t help laughing. Cassie had sighed, then dug back into her shrimp with lobster sauce. “You are such a Goody Two-Shoes. Sometimes I wonder what you’re doing in Sin City.”
Hiding, that was what. Of course, Cassie didn’t know that. Nobody did.
Dawn stepped into the shower and lifted her face to the spray. She turned around slowly, let the water beat down on her hair, then worked in a dollop of shampoo.
Hiding right out in the open, because this was the perfect place for it. Las Vegas was always crowded. Phoenix hadn’t been this jammed with people, or even Los Angeles, and certainly not Santa Fe. Heaven knew she’d been in all of them in the days when Orianna bounced from town to town. She’d never seen streets more packed than the Vegas Strip or crowds any more dense than the ones that jammed the casinos. And there was a bonus. Harman wouldn’t come here. Calling Las Vegas “Sin City” was Cassie’s idea of a joke, but her husband would surely believe the devil walked these streets. He’d never come here unless he somehow learned where she was…
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Dawn said briskly, and shut off the water.
Why waste any part of this exciting morning on a part of her life that was over and done with? She had to dry her hair, put on makeup, dress…but first, she’d begin her day the way she always did, with a call to the Rocking Horse Ranch so she could say good morning to her baby. Her son. The love of her life, the one good thing, the only good thing, Harman had ever given her.
Dawn reached for the telephone. And when, a few minutes later, she heard Tommy say, “Hello, Mama,” in his sweet, eager voice, she made the same silent vow she made each morning. Someday, she’d find a way to keep her child safe without having to be separated from him, without having to keep him a secret…
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said, and her heart almost overflowed with love.
* * *
By the time she left for work, the temperature had already climbed into the nineties.
She was in luck. Her cranky old car started up right away.
Nothing stirred in the arid brown and beige land that ringed the city. The creatures of the desert took to their nests and burrows during the day, waiting for nightfall and the coolness it would bring, but humans weren’t that sensible. The roads and streets grew more crowded as she got closer to the city’s heart, the area known as the Strip, which was already thronged with people.
Dawn parked in the employees’ lot behind the Desert Song. The security guard at the back entrance touched the brim of his cap as she walked toward him.
“Mornin’, Miss Carter.”
She’d plucked the name from a display of baby clothes in a store. It had taken her months to grow accustomed to it. Now, the name felt as if it had always been hers.
“Morning, Howard.” She smiled at the burly man. “I missed you yesterday. Everything all right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The guard grinned. “Took the day off so I could go to the doctor with my wife. Seems as if we’re gonna have a baby.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Impulsively she kissed his cheek. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Got to admit, we’re mighty happy. How about you? You must be feeling pretty good this morning. The word is this is gonna be your first day alone with all those VIPs.”
“Uh-huh.” She held up her hand, showed him her crossed fingers. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ll do fine, Miss Carter. Special’s got to be a fun place to work. Getting to rub shoulders with the rich and famous… The grapevine says that Arab prince is checking in later today.”
“That’s some grapevine,” Dawn said, and laughed. “It knows more than I do. Take care, Howard. And tell your wife I wish her well.”
She stepped through the door, took a deep breath of air so cool it felt like a soothing liquid slipping down her throat, and set off down the corridor. Guests thought of the Desert Song as a fantasyland resort and it was, but it took a small, efficient army to keep it that way. This part of the hotel was very different from the public area. It was given over to administrative services. No blinking lights, no slot machines and their electronic chortles, just the occasional hum of a printer or the soft ringing of a telephone. Offices opened onto both sides of the hallway. The Special Services office—her new office, Dawn thought, and her step quickened—was at the end of the corridor. She stopped at the door, took a deep breath, then stepped inside.
There were five Service Specialists and they all shared an efficient, behind-the-scenes workspace. Dawn had already begun adding her own touches by tacking things on the corkboard that hung over the desk, the small section of it, anyway, that belonged to her. She’d put up a few notes and a calendar with a photo of Tommy beneath it. It was just a small picture and he was only one little cowboy in a bunch of other little cowboys dressed up for one of the Ranch’s monthly cookouts. If anybody happened to see it, which she figured was unlikely, she could always point to one of the other kids and say he was her cousin. It was an awful way to live, but Tommy’s safety was everything.
She paused now, smiled at the picture and touched it lightly with one fingertip.
“Hey there, sunshine,” she whispered. Tommy almost seemed to smile back.
Okay. It was time to get to work. She had—she glanced at her watch, then at the clock on the desk—she had fifteen minutes to read through whatever faxes or e-mails were waiting. The Specialists worked rotating shifts and covered for each other on days off and vacations so that one of them was always available, day or night, to handle the needs of guests like the Arab prince that Howard had mentioned, not that Dawn or any of her sister Specialists would confirm that the rumor was right and the prince was, indeed, arriving today.
Aside from providing guests like the prince the Desert Song’s finest suites and most elegant service at no cost, the hotel also gave them privacy if that was what they wanted, publicity if that was their preference. Part of Dawn’s job was to know when to provide one or encourage the other.
“It’s not easy,” Keir had warned her during the interview. “It sounds glamorous, to hobnob with some of these people, but it isn’t.”
“Oh, I know that,” Dawn had replied. “I’ve been dealing at the high stakes tables for a year. Sometimes it’s fun…”
“And sometimes it’s hell.” He’d grinned, his black eyes snapping with amusement. “By the way, I heard how nicely you handled that little scene the other night. My compliments—but did the senator really try to slide an extra chip across the table after you showed seventeen?”
Dawn had given her boss a wide-eyed smile of innocence. “Surely not. The chip just fell out of his hand when he reached for his drink. Perfectly understandable, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh.” Keir’s grin had broadened. “Good thinking, Carter.” His expression had turned serious. “Okay, the position is yours. Just remember that we want you to keep our VIPs happy but not at the expense of taking any kind of guff. Do you understand what I mean?”
She did. Men hit on you in this town. Finding ways to put men off, but politely, was a necessity when you worked in a place where the food, the drinks, the good times all seemed not just free but endless.
Cassie was the person who had taught her how to do it.
They’d met right after Dawn passed the test the Song offered employees who wanted to learn to be dealers. Dawn was still a waitress at the Reveille coffee shop; Cassie had just taken a job as a cocktail waitress in the casino after deciding she’d had enough of dancing behind a bar. They’d hit it off so well that Dawn had moved out of her cramped furnished room and into Cassie’s tiny apartment while she looked for a place of her own.
“I swear,” Cassie said one night, “more guys think they can cop a feel now that I’m serving drinks than when I was wiggling my ass behind that bar.”
Cassie sounded annoyed more than anything else but Dawn felt a chill dance down her spine. Nobody had touched her since she’d left Harman. Nobody ever would. Even remembering how he’d slobbered on top of her made her feel sick.
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Sandra Marton
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Raising The Stakes, электронная книга автора Sandra Marton на английском языке, в жанре современные любовные романы