by Lisa Jackson
He grabbed her hand. “How’re you holding up?”
“Pretty good, I think.”
“Need a drink?”
Cassidy shook her head. Her nerves were jangled already, her emotions snarled, her imagination running wild. What she needed was a clear head. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I need one.”
Dena’s gaze was reproachful, her tone slightly scolding. “Rex, I don’t think you should—”
Rex didn’t hear his wife, or if he did he chose to ignore her advice and strode purposefully to the den.
“This is killing him, you know,” Dena confided as they walked into the kitchen. “Those horrid old memories”—her fingers fluttered at her sides—“all back again.” Her face looked suddenly pale and old as if she’d been forever fighting a no-win battle with age. “I thought it was behind us, but oh, no. He even insisted that on our way over here we stop at the cemetery, for God’s sake. After the flight, we couldn’t even come home and take off our shoes or unpack. No way. He had Derrick pull off at the cemetery and he spent about twenty minutes praying at Lucretia and Angie’s graves.” Her chin wobbled a little, and she took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs near the window. The sadness that her husband would never love her as much as he’d loved his first wife made her shoulders slump. “He’ll never forget her, you know,” she admitted, wiping at a spot on the tile inlay of the wooden table with a long finger.
“Angie?”
“Lucretia.” Dena reached into her purse for a breath mint. “And Angie, too. They looked so much alike. He…well, you know how he felt about her.” She gave a little shudder and looked as if she might break down. “He always treated her as if she were some kind of princess—a replica of her mother. Sometimes I wondered if…” She swallowed hard, then shook her head, as if in denial to herself.
“You wondered if what?” Cassidy asked, feeling a needle of dread prick her heart.
“Nothing…nothing…” Dena said quickly, forcing a smile. “I thought he’d change,” she admitted. “Forget Lucretia.” She wrapped an arm protectively over her waist. “But losing Angie. It only made it worse.”
Their gazes touched briefly, and her mother’s eyes were dark with a private torment. Cassidy’s insides seemed to congeal.
“Sometimes I wonder why I married him.”
“I think your mother’s had a long day,” Rex Buchanan’s voice whispered through the room, and the temperature in the kitchen seemed to sink five degrees. “You’re tired, Dena.”
Dena’s shoulders stiffened.
Rex, swirling a short glass of some amber-colored liquor, smiled sadly. “Your mother’s been having these spells—”
“I have not!”
“She’s mixing up fantasy and reality.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Rex, don’t try to confuse Cassidy. She won’t buy it. She’s a smart girl and she remembers how it was. How you treated her.”
“Stop it!” Cassidy hissed. “What’s wrong with you two?” Then, to calm everyone, she held up her hands. “Let’s not get into all that, okay? Angie and I were different. Dad treated us differently and it was fine with me, really.” Her father stared down at his feet. “Dad, really, I never wanted you to treat me like you did Angie. I was afraid that after…after she died you might…well, change and look at me like you did her. When you didn’t, I was relieved.”
“It wasn’t fair!” Dena put in. “He should have adored you the same way he—”
“He loves me, Mom. I know it. He knows it. I’m not Angie, and thank God for that!”
“You left after Angie died because of the way he treated you,” Dena charged.
“I left because it was time to go. To find out who I really was. To get away from all this…this fighting. Now, come on, let’s just put this all behind us. For now.”
“Dena didn’t like me stopping at the cemetery.” Rex took a long swallow of his drink. “She’s making more of it than there is.”
“I don’t like you moping around for a dead woman and a dead daughter. It’s been too long. Just because there’s been another fire doesn’t give you the right to start acting melancholy all over again. You grieved over Lucretia forever, then you grieved for Angie and I understood it, but it’s been too long, Rex, too damned long. I won’t put up with it anymore.” She blinked rapidly.
“The problem is you’re jealous.”
“Damned right, I’m jealous. I never measured up, did I? Never as good as Lucretia. I played along with it, thought you’d eventually forget her, but you didn’t, and I’m tired of being understanding, pretending I don’t hurt every time you look at her portrait, that I didn’t notice how you ignored Cassidy whenever Angie was around—”
“Mom!” She couldn’t hear this now, not while Chase was fighting for his life and Brig…dear Lord, she couldn’t shake the image of his broken body from her mind. “This isn’t the time.”
“Cassidy’s right. We’ve got other problems.”
“Do we? Sometimes I wouldn’t know.” Shooting a scathing look over her shoulder, Dena glared at her husband before walking stiffly out of the room.
Rex finished his drink and dropped the glass into the sink. “She exaggerates.” He turned and managed a well-practiced smile. “Now, tell me about Chase and how he’s doing. The prognosis.”
She filled him in as much as she could, suggesting that Rex and Dena visit him as well as talk to T. John. They discussed the arson, but stayed away from the obvious fact that the two fires were similar.
Rex finished his drink. “They have any idea who the other man is—the John Doe?”
“No.”
“Chase doesn’t know?”
“He says not.”
“Ah, well. Another mystery.” He rubbed his temples, sadness slid across his eyes. “Willie’s been missing, hasn’t he?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He hasn’t been at the house, or at work.”
“Damn.” He twisted his glass in his fingers and stared through the windows. “I hope he’s okay.”
“Willie’s tough.”
“But innocent. Naïve. And it looks like a storm’s brewing.” He studied the darkening clouds, his face reflective. “Nothing like a summer storm.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he asked, “Do you believe in curses, Cassidy?”
“What? No.” What was he talking about? Why the sudden shift in conversation? She felt a sudden sense of foreboding. It was odd, she thought, but then she and her father weren’t particularly close. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation, just the two of them.
“Good. That’s good.” He spoke softly as he stared out the window, past the pool, to a distance that only he could see.
“Do you, Dad?” Where was this leading?
“Of course,” he said without even a second’s hesitation. “And I think I’ve been cursed for a long, long time. I only wish it didn’t involve you or your brother or your mother. It was bad enough that it destroyed Angie and Lucretia.”
“What—what are you talking about?” she asked, and wondered if she really wanted to know. There were secrets in the Buchanan house. They all had them, and she sensed her father was about to share his.
“I think it’s time you knew a few things about me.”
Oh, God, she was right! Rex wanted to make a confession. A dull roar seemed to build in her ears.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, almost as if it were a prayer. “I don’t really know how to say this, but…” His fingers gripped his empty glass so hard his hand shook. “It’s my fault they died, you know. All my fault.” He blinked rapidly, fighting the urge to break down.
“You didn’t kill them,” she said, hardly daring to breathe. Surely he wasn’t saying…
“Not intentionally, no. But I destroyed them; as surely as if I’d turned the ignition in Lucretia’s car or struck a match to the old gristmill.” Tears glistened in his eyes.
“But how? Dad, this is crazy talk.”
“By not being faith
ful. A man should always be faithful.”
The grandfather clock in the den began to chime. Rex glanced at his watch and seemed to pull himself together. “Jesus, look at the time. I guess we’d better go visit Chase.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What do you mean that you weren’t faithful? You can’t make a statement like that and just leave, Dad.” She was angry, afraid of what she was about to hear.
“I suppose not.” His features grim, he closed his eyes. “It’s simple, Cassidy. I cheated on Lucretia. There were other women. One who I really cared about—not like Lucretia, you understand; I didn’t love the women, but I did care about this one.”
“You mean Mom?” Cassidy’s stomach quivered.
He closed his eyes, and his lips moved silently as if he were sending up a prayer. “No,” he admitted, his jaw sliding to one side.
Cassidy’s fingers clenched around the edge of the counter. “Then who?”
“It’s ironic, really,” Rex admitted, dropping his empty glass onto the table. “The woman I cared about—the one I went to when I was lonely—was Sunny McKenzie.”
Twenty-six
The sky was the color of slate—thick clouds covered the sun, the sultry heat oppressive. Cassidy drove as if her life depended upon it; as if putting distance between herself and her father would keep her from believing anything she’d heard.
The inside of the Jeep was warm, the summer air muggy with the threat of rain. Humidity made her sweat; disgust and disbelief kept her heart thumping wildly. Her mind was racing a million miles a minute to dark, suppressed corners she didn’t dare peer into too closely.
The first splat of raindrops drizzled down the windshield, causing winding rivulets on the dusty glass. She didn’t bother with the wipers, barely noticed the thin stream of traffic on the winding county road.
Her father had an affair with Sunny? Chase and Brig’s mother—a woman whose husband left her because he questioned the paternity of her children. It’s only rumors. Just gossip. Just because Rex Buchanan slept with Sunny didn’t mean that he fathered…oh God! Her mouth went dry, the taste of stomach acid rising in the back of her throat.
For years she’d trained herself to be unemotional, to look at each news report, no matter how sordid, no matter how violent, no matter how depressing, with professional and uninvolved eyes. Though she’d had sympathy for the victims of crimes or accidents, she’d been able to report each story objectively. Afterward, late at night at home, she could confide in Chase, let her emotions pour out, but while she was on camera or writing her story, she kept her outrage or sorrow at bay.
But when it came to her own family, she couldn’t find that inner thread of steel that kept her emotions under wraps. She’d been speechless when her father had admitted his affair with Sunny, and though she’d tried to question him further, he’d clammed up, as if he instantly regretted confessing to her. He’d made an excuse to go upstairs and look in on her mother. As if he cared!
Maybe it was just the booze talking. For years she’d suspected her father relied on alcohol to numb him; to help him cope with problems he’d rather not face. He’d used Scotch or brandy to soak his brain as he’d relied upon the confessional to assuage whatever guilt he bore for his sins.
Other dark thoughts coiled through her mind—ideas that slithered like poisonous snakes she couldn’t outrun.
If Rex had engaged in a long-term affair with Sunny during his first marriage, wasn’t it possible that he could have fathered Chase? Or Brig? The thought made the contents of her stomach turn sour. Her fingers gripped the wheel and she eased up on the accelerator as she approached a curve in the road. Surely if he’d sired Chase, Rex would have confided in his daughter—insisted she stop seeing a man who could be her half brother.
For the love of God. Her half brother!
Maybe Rex didn’t know. Maybe he really believed Frank McKenzie was Chase’s father.
Her mouth filled with saliva. She cranked on the wheel and pulled over. The belly of the Jeep was brushed by long, dry grass. Wheels squealed in the gravel of the shoulder, and the Jeep jolted to a stop. Throwing open the door, Cassidy jumped to the ground and ran to the ditch, where she retched violently, the contents of her stomach splattering in the weeds and litter of the dry gutter. “Please, God, don’t let it be true,” she whispered and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Dropping to her knees, she felt fat drops of rain plop against the back of her neck and shoulders.
Maybe not Chase. Maybe, if Rex fathered any of the McKenzie boys, it had been Brig. Hadn’t Frank McKenzie left Sunny only days after Brig had been born? Hadn’t there been rumors of Sunny’s lover siring her infant son? And hadn’t Rex bent over backward giving Brig every chance possible, hiring him when other men wouldn’t give the black sheep of the McKenzie brood the time of day?
Saliva formed in her mouth and she spat before vomiting again. Not Brig! Please, please, not Brig! But if he had fathered Brig, didn’t Rex deserve to know that his son was lying near death in the hospital? Didn’t Sunny have the right to visit him one last time?
Leaning forward, she dry-heaved until tears ran down her face. Her entire life had shattered. Even if neither Brig nor Chase was Rex’s son, she’d never feel the same. Still kneeling, she leaned backward so that her rump hit her heels and the rain fell on her upturned face. Her father and Angie? Her father and Sunny? The world began to spin and she shook. The corners of her eyes were shadowed as if she would faint before her stomach revolted again and she hung her head over the dry grass and weeds. No! No! No!
Tears burned her eyes and she ran the back of her hand under her nose when the retching ended. Slowly, she rose to her feet. “Get a grip,” she told herself as she wiped her hand over her lips and spat into the ground. “This isn’t the end of the world.” But of course, it was.
It was cold—so cold. Impossible to get warm. Sunny shivered. Because of the boys. Her boys. Images of them as toddlers, youths and young men danced in her head. Handsome. Strapping. Full of promise.
It had been years since she’d seen Brig, even longer since she’d reluctantly given Buddy away, and Chase—how long had it been since he’d come to visit? She’d counted on Chase, knowing deep in her heart that one day he would turn his back on her. Long ago, she’d seen into his soul. She tried not to be bitter. It was only right for a son to leave his mother and take a wife.
She rubbed her hands over the thin cotton of her sleeves, hoping to infuse some heat in her body. She’d been a foolish woman, she knew, trusting some of the wrong people. Even when she’d looked into their eyes and seen their true spirits.
Rex Buchanan had been a mistake. She’d been young and dazzled, the wife of Frank McKenzie, a good, decent man who wanted nothing more than his meal on the table when he got off work, and peace and quiet so that he could watch television. His eyes had been clear and blue; honest mirrors. He didn’t make excessive demands upon her, never raised his fist to her, never so much as yelled at her, but he’d had a violent streak, one he’d kept dutifully under wraps. Until he drank. Then Frank transformed from an easygoing millwright to a hostile being with a chip stuck solidly on one brawny shoulder.
He’d gamble then. Find a cockfight or a dogfight and wager part of his pay on the bloody outcome. That was the only time when they would argue; when Frank would come back from the pits, smelling of smoke and sawdust and blood, a gleam in his eye when he won, disappointment bitterly etched into the lines around his mouth when he lost. Those few-and-far-between times were the worst, for then Frank seemed to become the embodiment of evil, the same hateful kind of man her father had been.
Sunny despised Frank’s weakness. She believed in the sanctity of life for all creatures and refused to be silent after his drinking, wagering, and watching animals trained to kill and disembowel each other. The only time she raised her voice to her husband was when he’d been to the pits. The animal fights were not only inhumane but illegal, and Sunny had called th
e authorities more than once; each time the pits had been closed, but within weeks a new location was found in the wooded hollows and old barns that dotted the foothills of the Cascade Mountains.
She’d never meant to be unfaithful. Though she was not a religious woman, her wedding vows were sacred to her and meant to be revered. She hadn’t planned on falling in love with Rex Buchanan, nor he with her. But it had happened. Violently. Passionately. Sinfully. In lust she’d borne him a son. Because of that lust, her marriage had ended.
She’d always considered it fate that they’d found each other, their destiny. He never would have known her, never crossed that forbidden line, if not for circumstance.
As a joke for his thirty-fifth birthday, some of Rex’s employees had given him a gift certificate to have his palm read and his fortune told by Sunny McKenzie. Sunny had known the certificate, which she’d made out of posterboard and colored markers, had only been for sport, that she was being made fun of, that Rex Buchanan, lord of all that was Prosperity, Oregon, would never deign to show his face in her little trailer rusting on the shores of Lost Dog Creek. But she needed the business, and she’d gone along with the group of five or six blowhards from the mill and placed the certificate in an envelope sealed with purple wax. When Rex had sheepishly knocked on her door two months later, she’d been surprised and pleased, welcoming him inside and taking his strong hand in hers.
Immediately, she’d seen his spirit. Sometimes a spirit would hide beneath layers of well-developed personality, but not so Rex’s. His hand had been warm, his grip strong, his fingers capable of violence or tenderness. As she’d stared into his mesmerizing blue eyes, she’d looked into his soul and witnessed his sorrow, known instantly that his wife was cold and unloving. “You are not happy,” she’d said.
“I don’t believe in this.”
“I know.”
He’d tried to ease his hand away from hers, but she’d held on fiercely, full of wonder about this powerful man. “But you’re not happy.”
