by Lisa Jackson
No answer.
She moved toward the hallway and listened. There was a whirring sound. A bathroom fan?
A narrow shelf that lined the hallway was stacked with magazines. She assumed that they were some sort of reference material for the newspaper, but a provocative cover at the top of the stack caught her eye. Moving a bit closer, she was glad she hadn’t touched any of them. The shelf was filled, floor to ceiling, with pornography.
Her pulse was hammering in her ears, her senses on alert. Maybe she was being overly cautious, but she had learned not to ignore these warnings. Fear was a gift, instinct a guidepost.
Time to leave.
As she turned toward the door, she caught a glimpse of Woodcock’s computer monitor displaying a photo of a well-endowed brunette with her legs spread. The next photo was a blonde in an even more compromising position.
Her throat knotted as beads of sweat broke out on her brow. A porn screen saver?
What a guy.
Without another word, she escaped to the heat of the street, grateful for her instincts.
*
The first client of the day was a referral from Doc Farley, a sullen fortyish woman named Maureen Everly. She sat down on the couch without a smile, her hair tied back and concealed under a cowboy hat with a long scarf trailing behind her.
“Would you like to take your hat off?” Ruth offered.
Maureen declined. It turned out that the hat was covering her dirty, badly matted dark hair, which had been neglected for weeks. “It’s embarrassing, but I can’t get to it,” Maureen admitted. “I can’t get anything done. I can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone get anyplace on time.” Soon after she began talking, tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Ruth handed her a box of tissues and listened.
Maureen had lost her job and friends, and what little family she had was on the verge of disowning her. “My mother was the one who made me come here. She got together with Doc Farley and tricked me. Told me the appointment was an hour ago so I’d be on time. I hate being tricked.”
“I understand that, but your mom was just trying to help.” Ruth talked about the need for a few sessions to introduce Maureen to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. “CBT is a process, but in a nutshell, it gives us a chance to change our behavior to improve our mind-set.”
Through her tears, Maureen agreed to give it a try, and she would start by keeping a journal of her daily moods, diet, and sleep patterns. Before she left, Ruth gave her a worksheet on unhelpful thinking styles, such as jumping to conclusions and all-or-nothing thinking. She also made a note to check with Doc Farley about prescribing antidepressants.
Maureen was still crying as she went to the door. “Tears of relief,” she said.
“Crying is a part of healing,” Ruth told her, giving her a few tissues for the road.
In the reception area, Ruth closed the door behind her patient and considered Maureen’s treatment plan. If Maureen stayed in therapy, she had a chance to transform her life.
Just as I transformed mine, Ruth thought, recalling Dr. Boden, the therapist who had pulled her out of the pit of fear. And one of the first things she had told Ruth was that crying was a part of healing.
Ruth went to the window and watched the woman maneuver gingerly across the street. It was people like Maureen who reminded Ruth of why she had come home. Ruth could make a difference here.
She wanted to stay.
As long as Prairie Creek was a safe place to raise her kid.
Right now, she knew that Debra and Jeremy Donovan did not believe it was safe, and she couldn’t blame them. But she would do her best to help them through this difficult time. And any information she could extract from them would come in handy in her profile of Addie’s kidnapper. No, Kat and the sheriff’s office hadn’t asked her to be involved, but she had been pulled in fifteen years ago when a monster pinned her to the ground.
*
“Hurry, Mom! Can you drive a little faster? I can’t wait to meet my horse!” Penny was bobbing in the car seat as the car trundled down the long road leading to the Dillinger barn.
“Yeah,” Jessica seconded, craning her neck to look out the front window.
“Patience. We’re almost there.” Ruth had budgeted an hour between sessions to deliver the girls to the ranch and get them started on their lessons, and she was glad to be able to be a part of the process instead of handing the task off to her mother.
As they walked up to the barn, the place seemed fairly deserted but for a black Lab resting in the shade and two horses that seemed to get taller and taller as Ruth approached them. “These don’t look like ponies,” Ruth said aloud.
“Wow!” Penny exclaimed. “They’re ginormous!”
Enjoying her daughter’s amazement, Ruth looked for their instructor. “Hello?” she called through the barn as the girls stood on the rail of the fence, admiring the horses. “Anyone here?”
“I’m here.” A lean, twentyish woman with ginger hair emerged from the shadows and strode to the horses without looking at Ruth. She went to one of the horses, checked the saddle and tightened the belt under its belly.
“We’re here for a lesson. That’s Jessica and this”—she placed her hands on Penny’s shoulders—“is my daughter Penny.”
“I’m Kit.”
“We’re really excited to learn how to ride,” Penny said.
When Kit didn’t respond, Jessica asked if the horses had names.
“Kaspar and Strawberry.”
“Strawberry!” Jessica rolled her eyes. “What kind of name is that?”
Again, Kit didn’t answer, and Ruth realized that small talk was not her thing. Kit had a wild, edgy look about her. With a smattering of freckles across her face and fiery red hair braided behind her back, she had a youthful body that seemed honed by hard work and time outdoors. Judging by the way she avoided eye contact, Ruth wondered if she was on the spectrum for autism, which would not prohibit her from being an effective teacher, in any case.
“I assume you’ll bring the girls back here when the lesson is over,” Ruth said.
“You’ll have to ask Rafe. He’s their teacher.”
Ruth glanced past the saddled horses to the paddock area. “Where is he?”
“On his way over. He just ran up to the bunkhouse for a minute.”
“Okay. I guess we’ll wait,” Ruth said, heading over to the corral to keep the girls company.
Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of the teacher. “You know, it’s getting late, and this is cutting into their session time.”
“Yeah, I know.” Kit stared at the horse she was grooming. “Just tell Rafe.”
“I would if he were here. I’ll take the girls to find him.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What does he look like?”
Kit shrugged. “A little older than you. A Dillinger cousin.”
“Wait. Rafe Dillinger?”
“Yes. You can talk to him direct. You pay him too.”
The image of a nasty, spitting cowboy seared Ruth’s mind as she tried to remember the young man who had blazed a trail of trouble back in high school. He’d been a few years ahead of her, but everyone knew of Rafe. He’d been questioned by investigators when Courtney disappeared because he’d been her boyfriend at the time. With numerous arrests and a rowdy reputation, Rafe was not an appropriate choice for an instructor of two eight-year-old girls.
And now Courtney was dead, held prisoner for fifteen years!
Ruth took a deep breath to calm down. She didn’t want to give Kit a hard time, but Rafe was not going near her daughter, and she didn’t want to disappoint the girls. “Is there someone else who can do the lessons?”
“Rafe’s gonna be their teacher.”
“What about you?” Ruth asked. “I’ll bet you’re an excellent rider.”
“I don’t teach. Rafe’s on his way from the bunkhouse.”
The sound of approaching horses had them both turn
toward the trail that led from the foothills, where three riders were coming in.
“Is that Rafe?” Ruth asked.
“No. That’s another lesson.”
When Ruth held up a hand against the glare of the sun to see the riders, she let out a laugh. “You’re kidding me.”
The other teacher was Ethan Starr.
“Okay, Kit. I’ll need to talk to your boss, or whoever oversees the lessons because we need another teacher. Rafe Dillinger is not an appropriate teacher for eight-year-old girls—or any kids, for that matter.”
“Davis went in to town. He’s the boss. He’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Well, maybe we’ll have to reschedule this lesson for tomorrow until we can get everything straightened out.”
“Mom?” Crestfallen, Penny shook her head so hard her ponytail whipped around. “No!”
“Pumpkin, I’m trying to work this out, but if that doesn’t happen, there’s always tomorrow.”
The little girls moaned at the possible disappointment and went over to watch Kit untether Kaspar and move him out of the sun. This time, Kit answered their questions, and Ruth was glad to see her engage, even if bluntly. The dog shook itself from sleep, took a few licks from the watering trough, and joined the girls.
Ruth watched as Ethan and his students rode in. The students were teenaged boys, and they were laughing together as they approached the stables. She waited in the shade of the barn as he finished with the guys, then ambushed him as he headed away smiling.
“Okay, Starr. I’m throwing myself and two eight-year-old girls at your mercy.”
“Ruth.” He paused to take her in, his blue eyes glimmering. “I knew you couldn’t be serious when you blew me off yesterday.”
“I didn’t blow you off, and watch out for big ears. I’m here with my daughter and her friend, who’ve been promised riding lessons. But it turns out their teacher is supposed to be Rafe Dillinger.”
“I see.” He tipped back his Stetson. “Is Rafe giving you a hard time about switching?”
“He’s a no-show. But Kit doesn’t give lessons, and Davis is in town. I’m wondering if—” Just then the pounding of horse hooves indicated that someone was coming. They both turned to see a gray gelding galloping in at breakneck speed.
With broad shoulders and head held high, Rafe cut a fine figure on his horse.
Until he slouched to the side and nearly fell out of the saddle, catching himself at the last minute. Drunk, Ruth realized.
“Aw, man. Rafe.” Ethan moved toward the listing cowboy. “You’re in bad shape.”
“I’m fine and dandy.” Rafe’s words came out in a low, slow drawl.
“You’re drunk. You can’t come to work that way.”
“It’s not the first time, and it’s not gonna be the last.” Rafe removed a pack of cigarettes from the folded cuff of his T-shirt, struck a match on the wooden rail of the fence, and lit one. In his dusky blue shirt, jeans, hat, and boots, he could have modeled for American Cowboy magazine. Except that his arms were thick with hair. And his fingers … short, stubby fingers pinched the cigarette.
Fear clawed at Ruth, squeezing her in a tight fist of panic.
Wide girth, furry skin, thick hands.
No. It couldn’t be.
She backed up into a bale of hay, the bristly fiber forcing her to stop as it poked into her white linen dress pants. Calm down. Deep breath. Feet solid on the ground. She ignored the sweat beading on her upper lip and brow, swallowed back the fear rising in her throat as she stood strong and stared into the face of the beast.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here,” she said.
Rafe didn’t seem to hear, though he straightened and squinted toward the corral. “Where the hell are the students? Got to give a goddamned lesson.”
“The students are kids,” Ruth said, trying to tamp down her panic and fury, “and you’re not going near them.”
“Shit. Who’s this bitch?” Rafe swung around and locked a searing gaze on Ruth. “Hey, I know you.” He gave a laugh. “The minister’s daughter. Sorry, darlin’. I didn’t mean to fuck with an angel.”
Chapter 16
Ruth gasped at the crude comment. It was just an expression, wasn’t it? As he loomed closer, pinning her with his lewd grin, she shrank against the wall of the barn and wondered if he could have been her attacker.
Even if he wasn’t the one, the potential for danger was there, setting every nerve in her body on edge. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, imploring her to rush over to the corral, grab her daughter, and blaze a trail out of town.
But she couldn’t run from the question: Did you rape me?
She wanted to ask, to prod Rafe for a confession, but he was too drunk for a reliable answer, eyes rolling shut as he took a heavy drag on the cigarette and then stumbled back, groping in the air for the fence.
Ethan lunged forward and grabbed Rafe by one arm, yanking him back onto his feet. “You’re going back to the bunkhouse. Get some coffee or sleep it off. Whatever you need to do. Just get the hell out of here.”
“Get your hands off me,” Rafe growled. “I can walk just fine.”
“Then go,” Ethan said, pushing him back toward his horse.
Holding her breath, Ruth watched as Rafe stumbled off. After he managed to heave himself into the saddle, he raised his head and trained his simmering gaze on Ruth. Putting two fingers up to his eyes and then pointing out to her, he pinned her with a hateful look. “I’ve got my eyes on you, girl.”
Silence overcame Ruth and Ethan as they watched him gallop off.
“What do you think that meant?” Ruth asked, pressing the back of one hand to her sweaty upper lip.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying. That’s the whiskey talking.”
Was it? Rafe’s anger had rough edges and muscle, the kind that pummeled another man unconscious in a barroom brawl. And if he directed that fury toward a woman … she didn’t want to think of the consequences.
Or the fact that he knew her name. How had he known? Had he been watching her? Or was he her attacker?
She wished she could share her fears with Ethan, fill him in about the trauma that had sent her running from home, but that was not going to happen, especially with her daughter yards away, wondering about her riding lessons.
“Are you okay?” Ethan was noticing her damp skin and lightning nerves.
“I’ll be fine.” She tried to take on a joking tone as her crazed heartbeat began to slow. “You know, being in my profession, I expect to counsel some people who are on the edge. But this town seems to have more than its share of them.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Been that kind of morning?”
“Don’t get me started. Let’s just say that I’m going to start making a list of these characters.”
“Keeping a scorecard?”
“Definitely. My roster of people who have a screw loose.”
“A screw loose? Did you attend the Three Stooges School of Therapy?”
“I’m just saying, we’ve got a disproportionate psycho population in Prairie Creek.”
“That’s a topic for later discussion, which I’d love to have over coffee or a beer sometime,” he said, looking over at the girls. “For now, let’s see if we can salvage a riding lesson.”
*
On Tuesday afternoon, Shiloh swallowed the last of her iced tea and pressed the cold, damp glass to the crook of her elbow. It was hotter than hell in this house.
Beau had to drive over to Jackson for tractor parts, so Shiloh decided to delay her grocery run into town. Neither she nor Beau wanted to leave their younger sister alone for too long now that Addie Donovan had gone missing in the prairie beyond their back acres. If the sorrow of losing her mother wasn’t enough for Morgan, the fear of a kidnapper out there and the discovery of a corpse in the hills bordering the ranch had been a real kick in the ass—for her and for all of them.
Morgan buried her grief and fear in discontent. �
��There’s nothing to do here,” she complained as she flopped down at the table in a bathrobe, with hair wet from the shower.
“I didn’t hear you saying that this morning when Beau and I were mucking the stalls,” Shiloh pointed out. “Oh, that’s right. You were still in bed.”
“Because I was up late, talking to Ayla.”
“You going to the pool with Ayla today? It’s a scorcher.”
“She has to watch her brothers.”
“What about Sandi?”
“I told you, she’s got summer school every day.”
“Well, if you get dressed, we can go for a ride.”
Morgan took a sip of milk. “Maybe later.”
“Now would be better. You need to get out of here. I’ll get the mail while you get ready.” Leaving Morgan in the kitchen, Shiloh rousted Rambo and headed down the long drive to the mailbox. Her thoughts were on Beau—and decidedly pornographic. Her brain was on a track, recalling every detail of their coupling, his body, her soaring desire, the smell and taste of him …
With an effort, she dragged her thoughts back to the present. She and Beau had been piecing together her mother’s fiscal life, and so far the outlook had been better than Shiloh had expected, with just a two-thousand-dollar credit-card debt that would be covered by Faye’s small life insurance policy. When the last of the bills came in, one of the things on her list was to get this smashed-up mailbox replaced. She reached inside and took out a stack of mail that seemed to be mostly junk mail. Hallelujah.
When Shiloh returned to the house, she was bothered to find her little sister parked on the couch in front of some reality show. In the days since they’d stumbled on that corpse out on the range, Morgan had barely budged from the house.
Leaving the mail on the kitchen counter, she stepped into the living room. “You’re not dressed, and it’s hotter than the bowels of hell in here. How can you stand it?”
Morgan scraped her wild red hair back into a high ponytail. She moved slow and cool like a cat, but the sheen of sweat on her face was a dead giveaway. “I’m watching my show.”
Hands on her hips, Shiloh stared at the girl freaking out on the TV screen. “That one is a spoiled brat.”
