Family Ties

by Joanna Wayne

  Of course, the fire had provided a temporary break from the boredom. At least it had until the big man himself showed up to spoil the fun. Everyone wanted a piece of the action.

  That’s what angered Lester the most. He was the one who’d masterminded the bank robbery, taken all the risks, even spent seven years locked behind bars with every kind of scum. The million dollars rightfully belonged to him.

  All he had to do was make Ashley produce it. She still had the money. He knew that, and so did Senator Dillon Randolph. Otherwise, Dillon would have never gone searching for a woman he’d dumped three years before, dumped when he’d apparently believed her tale about not having the money. Obviously, something had changed the senator’s mind and sent him scurrying for a second chance at the million.

  But Dillon would never lay a finger on the money. Not now. Not when Lester was this close. He’d get the loot or no one would, even if he had to kill every last one of them. And the longer he stayed cooped up in the back corners of this ranch, living like one of the scavenging rats who shared his habitat, the better the idea of murder sounded to him.

  After all, he’d already had a taste of it, and it had been a lot easier to swallow than prison food. And a hell of a lot easier than poverty.

  All he had to do was wait for his chance. He had ways to make Ashley talk.

  Chapter Eight

  Late afternoon sun poured onto the porch where Ashley sat, her feet tucked under her in the oversize rocker. She’d been reading her old diary for hours, the one she had been keeping the year of her brother’s death.

  She’d gone over every entry, reviving a multitude of painful memories but not discovering one clue as to what Peter might have done with the stolen money. Everyone thought he had gotten it to her, but no one seemed to know how.

  Lester had been arrested on the spot. Somehow, Peter had gotten away, if you could call being shot the next day getting away. But there had been no contact between her and Peter between the robbery and his death.

  Questions without answers, problems without solutions. Only Petey seemed content, playing at her feet, marching a plastic pony around in a lopsided circle. Another find from the Randolph attic. Every toy her boys had played with had become a treasure to Mary Randolph, to be passed on to her grandchildren.

  She had so much love to share, and Petey, as the first grandchild, was reaping the rewards. You could see it in Mary’s eyes every time Petey came into sight or tugged on her skirt for another cookie or a bit of attention.

  Family love. It was taken for granted by all the Randolphs. But then none of them had been deserted at birth by their mother. And maybe even that was not as bad as being deserted at age three, the way Peter had been. He had become a rebel early on.

  That’s why the state had separated her from Peter when she was eight and he was eleven. He needed special care, they’d claimed, required placement in a home for boys with emotional problems. She’d cried for weeks when they’d taken him away. He was the only constant she had known, and their ties were severed by the state as easily as one might cut a rotting spot from an apple.

  She had never stopped missing him, although contact after that had been limited to phone calls and occasional visits. And then the call. He’d been killed in a shoot-out with the police the day after he’d robbed a bank and shot two innocent people in cold blood.

  The news had sent her into shock. Her brother couldn’t be dead. And he couldn’t be a murderer. She couldn’t accept either fact, couldn’t deal with the heartbreak. But somehow she had dealt with it, and she’d done it alone, a mean feat for a sixteen-year-old.

  She’d been the only one who’d cried at her brother’s funeral.

  “Play, Mommy.” Petey stood and bounced the pony across her lap.

  “Ride the horsey up to town. Look out, horsey. Don’t fall down.” Petey laughed at her rhyme and antics, and she picked him up, cuddling him to her for the few seconds he let her before he squirmed his way to the porch floor.

  Hands closed around Ashley’s heart, wringing until she felt sick from the pain. Leaving Petey would hurt so badly she didn’t know how she would stand it, but she had no choice. Lester was out there somewhere, maybe watching them even now, in spite of the fact Dillon had said he could protect her.

  She would leave the ranch tomorrow, and Lester would follow her, demanding the money. And then her ability to stay alive would depend on her ability to convince Lester she couldn’t deliver, no matter what he did to her. If she failed, she’d never see her son again. But at least she would know he was part of a family who loved him.

  She would stay here one more night, but she would stay in the house alone. All she’d have to do would be to convince Mary to take Petey to the big house so Ashley could get a good night’s rest. That way if Lester did show up, she would be the only one who’d suffer the consequences.

  ASHLEY TWITCHED, the paperback book she’d been reading falling from her hands. She hadn’t meant to, but she must have dozed off. Her gaze scanned the room. All was quiet. Satisfied no sound in the house had jerked her awake, she got up from the chair and walked to the bookcase. The silver pistol was there, loaded and ready. Just in case Lester showed up tonight

  She curled her fingers around the handle, and a surge of sheer panic coursed through her veins. Holding her breath, she forced her shaking fingers to lock around the gun and slide it from behind the silver picture frame. Only a piece of metal, she told herself. A tool to be used.

  Neither her heart nor her mind was fooled. One wrong move could turn this piece of metal deadly. Shudders shook her, and she gritted her teeth, refusing to return the pistol to its hideaway. If Lester did show up tonight the gun would buy her time, make him stand back and listen to her explanation that she had never seen a penny of the money.

  She walked quietly through the house, holding the gun, praying it would grow less frightening in her hand, rehearsing the story she would have to make Lester believe before the terror would end.

  A shadow flickered on the wall, and Ashley jerked around, finding nothing but a moth flying at the light. Still, the uneasiness persisted. All afternoon, she’d had the feeling someone was inside the house with her. Once, she had almost bounded from her skin when a shuffling noise had startled her. It had been nothing but the wind rattling a blind in the open kitchen window. Now that window was closed and locked like all the others.

  Funny—as much as she feared the meeting with Lester, she almost hoped he did show up tonight. At least then she would have a chance to end his reign of terror. Every dime she’d saved since leaving Burning Pear nearly three years ago was tucked away in the back of her suitcase. She’d hand it over to him gladly, but it was all she had. She had to make him believe her.

  The door rattled behind her, and her bravery plummeted to her toes. Shaking, she leaned against the wall for support. A knock followed, hard and fast.

  Ashley counted to ten, slow and steady, then raised the gun and pointed it. The door was locked. She tiptoed closer and was no more than a step away from the door when it flew open.

  “What in the devil—”

  “Branson!” His name flew from her lips. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He stared at the gun at her hand. “Good. I didn’t expect a warm welcome, but I’d hate to think that weapon was intended for me.”

  “No.” Her heartbeat calmed to merely erratic, and the blood slowly returned to her brain. “You could have knocked.”

  “I did. Why don’t you hand that thing to me?” he said, reaching for the gun. “I’d like to come in for a minute and talk, and a gun in the hands of a shaking woman doesn’t do much for my communication skills.”

  “You never had any problems saying how you felt before.”

  She walked to the end table, opened the drawer and slipped the pistol inside. Relief shuddered along her spine. A reprieve for a while, if you could call a visit with her accusing brother-in-law a reprieve. “I don’t suppose you’re here to apologize,
” she said, turning to meet his steady gaze.

  “No.” He closed the door and walked into the living room behind her. “And you probably won’t like what I have to tell you now any better than you did three years ago.”

  Branson strode into the dimly lit den, stopping in front of the mantel to study a photograph of Petey. She had placed it there just this afternoon, squeezing it between a bronze of an Indian on his horse and a piece of southwestern pottery.

  “He’s a good-looking boy, Ashley. Intelligent, too, according to Dillon. You must be very proud of him.”

  “I am.” She circled the sofa and perched on its arm. “This is obviously not a welcome-back visit, Branson, so why don’t we skip the small talk?”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “Things between you and me have never been the way I wanted them.”

  “Look, Ashley, I know you think I’m a troublemaker.” He clenched his hands, then relaxed them, his dark eyes not straying from hers. “And maybe I am. But circumstances require it. And none of this is personal.”

  “Not personal. Let’s see. If I remember accurately, the last words between us included terms like gold digger, criminal background, blackmail. It sounded awfully personal to me. But then, what would I know, a poor kid from the wrong side of the wealth distribution, and kin to a bank robber to boot?”

  “I know, I came on a little strong. And I was wrong about a lot of the things I accused you of.” He left the mantel and walked over, stopping at the opposite edge of the sofa. “Under other circumstances, we might even be friends.”

  “I don’t think so, Branson. I tend not to be friendly with people who stab me in the back.”

  “That was never my intention. But it doesn’t really matter what we think of each other. There’s something far more important at stake here.”

  Distrust simmered inside her, casting an ugly tint to her tone. “And what might that be?”

  “Dillon. Right now he can’t afford any more complications, not the kind having you back in his life would bring.”

  Ashley’s fingers drummed a rapid tattoo on the smooth leather of the sofa. She agreed with him. Besides, why argue a moot point? She wasn’t really in Dillon’s life, not the way Branson meant. But knowing the argument was wasted effort didn’t calm the anger that was fast building to the point of explosion.

  “Dillon is an intelligent and powerful man,” she said, dropping to the sofa. “A state senator. Don’t you think he is capable of deciding who he wants in his life?”

  “With one exception.”

  “And that must be me, the femme fatale of the Lone Star State.” Her contempt crackled in the air between them. Branson frowned and stepped closer, towering over her, not threatening, but definitely not backing down.

  “The record speaks for itself. Dillon loves you, Ashley. I’d thought he was over it, but I was wrong. One taste of you, and he’s as love-struck as ever.”

  Dillon, in love with her! The way the cowboys had loved the Indians. Everything had been terrific as long as she had been an asset, an adoring woman on his arm. The minute she caused him trouble, he had shut her out of his life.

  “Dillon would never let an emotion as insignificant as love for a woman interfere with his life, Branson. After all, he is a Randolph first, a senator second. Husband fell way down the line. When my past left him with a bullet in the back, he forced me out of his life. Surely you remember that.”

  Branson left her side to pace the room, stopping at the table where she had stashed the pistol. He opened the drawer, took it out and rolled it over in his hand, caressing the short barrel.

  “The longer you stay, Ashley, the harder it will be on him when you leave. And if you don’t leave, your past will drag Dillon down, just like I warned you before,” he said, still fingering the gun.

  “I have no past, Branson. At least not the kind you refer to.” She shook her head. Sudden weariness settled over her, and she closed her eyes. She had been geared up to face Lester, not Branson.

  With Lester, she had at least a chance of getting somewhere. By the time she opened her eyes again, Branson was returning the gun to the drawer.

  “I’m not a criminal,” she continued, knowing she was arguing with a man whose opinion of her was cast in stone. “I wasn’t involved in the bank robbery, and I have never seen a penny of the money.”

  “That’s not what the police think, and that’s not what the public will think.”

  “And how would the public know after all these years? Unless of course you plan to tell them.”

  “A million dollars draws strange bedfellows, even years down the trail. Just last month there was a stranger hanging around town, asking questions about you. My guess is he’s a cop, but who knows? He might have been a reporter, a private eye, even a bounty hunter.”

  Or Lester, sneaking around like the dirty thief he was. Irritation and apprehension collided inside Ashley. That’s how the rat had known so quickly when Dillon had located her.

  “I have no idea what you want from Dillon,” Branson continued. “All I’m asking is that you don’t destroy him.”

  “That’s a fair request. Rest assured that I won’t.” Ashley walked over and swung the heavy wooden door open. With a motion of her hand, she ushered him out.

  He pushed the screen door then stopped. “By the way, if I were you, Ashley, I’d put that pistol on top of the bookshelf where Dillon keeps it, and I’d leave it there. There’s nothing more dangerous than a weapon in the hands of a person who’s afraid to use it.”

  “Thanks for the concern,” she said. “But you needn’t worry about me. I’ll use it if I need to.”

  He stuck his right hand in his pocket and came out with a closed fist. “Not without these,” he answered, opening his hand and poking it in front of her. Six shiny bullets stared at her.

  She didn’t bother with a response, and she definitely wouldn’t beg. Without a word, she slammed the door in Branson’s face.

  ASHLEY SPENT the remainder of the night tossing in her bed, waiting for a visitor who never showed his face. Either Branson had frightened Lester off or Lester had decided this was a trap. It was, of course, but he would have liked the odds. One woman and a pistol that only looked deadly.

  She was disappointed the showdown would have to wait, and, yes, she might as well admit it, a tad relieved. Her heart produced great arguments to convince her mind that Lester could be made to listen to reason if she could get his attention long enough. Even an unloaded gun should do that. And she’d never intended to fire the dreaded thing, anyway.

  Her mind, however, had a good memory. Gruesome details of her last encounter with a slightly drunk and knifearmed Lester Grant had left their mark. A few marks had been left on her back, as well, evidence that he didn’t mind using a weapon.

  Those were the thoughts that kept her awake most of the Fortunately, morning was better. She’d opened her o streams of glorious sunshine washing over the masc. a bed. Tiptoeing to the window, she’d surveyed the land as far as the eye could see and found nothing but more golden rays, glistening like diamonds on strands of long green grass and the prickly spines of pear cactus.

  By nine o’clock she had showered and dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a white cotton shirt to join Mary, Langley and Petey for breakfast. Not the buttered toast and coffee she would have hurried through in Destin, but a breakfast to dawdle over, savoring every bite.

  Biscuits so fluffy they fell to pieces when she tried to break them. Eggs over easy, the whites translucent, the yellows high and haughty, and creamy white grits dotted with fresh butter.

  “Fabulous,” Ashley crooned, wiping her mouth on a flowered napkin. “Even Petey is eating instead of playing.”

  Petey banged his spoon on the edge of the table a couple of times, not wanting to ruin his reputation by becoming totally cooperative. After that, the spoon dipped into the bowl of grits, delivering most of the helping to his mouth.

  A broad smil
e lit Mary’s face. “I’m glad you liked it. And Petey, too. He’s eating like a Randolph.”

  Like a Randolph. As far as Mary and Dillon were concerned, everything about Petey was pure Randolph.

  “It’s a good thing I found that old chair of the boys’ up in the attic,” Mary added, apparently not suspecting Ashley’s change in mood.

  “It’s certainly handy,” Ashley murmured, fighting the lump in her throat. Family memories, hand-me-down toys, homemade furniture. Traditions. All the wonderful treasures she couldn’t pass along to Petey.

  But those things were nothing compared to having a mother who loved you.

  “How about passing me another biscuit?” Langley broke the suffocating silence.

  Ashley passed one to him and then scooped up her plate and carried it to the sink. Her appetite had vanished.

  “I’m so full I’ll have to force the rest of this biscuit down,” Langley said, “but I have to get them while I can.”

  “Then you don’t eat like this every day?”

  “No way,” Langley answered. “Mother’s on a crusade to save our arteries by starving us to death. We pray for company at mealtime these days.”

  “Apparently not all of you.”

  “Yeah, well, Dillon and Branson blew it,” Langley said, reaching over to share part of his jellied biscuit with Petey. “Their bad luck. Dillon had his meeting in San Antonio last night with his campaign aides and Branson took off at daybreak for an auction over in Dimmit County. He was out of here before I woke up.”

  “Get down, get down,” Petey urged, finally full. Kicking his feet, he poked his spoon in Ashley’s direction.

  “Okay, sweetie, but first we have to wash those sticky fingers.”

  “Let me do it,” Mary said, jumping up and wetting a cloth at the sink. She started to say more, but the strident ring of the phone stopped all attempts at conversation. Langley grabbed the receiver before the second ring.

  “I don’t know who’d be calling here this time of the morning,” Mary said. She dabbed at Petey’s hands with the wet cloth and tried to hold his face still long enough to get the biggest smear of jelly. “Looks like people would give you time to finish breakfast before they started ringing you up.”