“Maybe you should,” Highbridge allowed, making a show of being busy placing handfuls of vegetable parings in his countertop compost bin.
“Then we’re agreed.” Landry sighed. “Where do I find these scandalous images?” he asked, and though he might have sounded cocky, he said those words at some cost to his pride.
Highbridge didn’t turn around. “I sent you the links,” he said primly. “Via email.”
Email. What was the point in bouncing messages up to some satellite and then right back down again, into a computer in the same damn house?
Shaking his head, but with a burr of dread stuck in the pit of his stomach, Landry headed for his home office, fired up the desktop, logged on and clicked his way straight to his mailbox.
The butler’s communiqué was at the top of the list.
Highbridge, not normally a technical whiz, had been thorough; his links were neatly separated, each with its own bullet point, each leading to one of half a dozen different social-media sites.
Every picture was cockeyed, or blurry, obviously snapped on the sly, but they told a story, all right. Each and every one of them showed Ria looking bewildered, distracted, harried—and somewhat rumpled, as though she’d been given a date drug and didn’t know it yet. For all that, she was beautiful. Heartbreakingly so.
In one particularly memorable shot, she appeared to be draped on Landry while they danced. He, on the other hand, looked sober, in charge and pretty damn smug in the bargain. To wrap things up, there was a short video of him carrying Ria across the Boot Scoot’s seedy parking lot to his truck. She appeared to be limp as a rag doll, while, in point of fact, she’d been gearing up to sing every chorus of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer.”
Thankfully, the free-range camera bugs hadn’t caught her throwing up alongside the road. That was some consolation, but not much.
Landry made a mental note to trace every one of the pictures back to the sender, not to blitz him with kamikaze emails—that wasn’t his style—but as fair warning that he’d be around presently—in person—looking for explanations.
In the meantime, he had other things to take care of, so he logged off, rose from his desk chair and returned to the kitchen.
By then, Highbridge was browning stew meat in an electric skillet, still wearing that silly apron and as indignant as ever. He sniffed again, and refused to look at Landry.
“Okay, so the shots aren’t all that flattering,” Landry admitted, with an edge to his voice. “Ria went a little overboard with the beer, but so what? She’s of legal age, and it was probably good for her to loosen up a little.”
Maybe, if you didn’t count the throwing up, the hurt in her eyes, Landry corrected himself in grim silence. Topped off, of course, with a miserable night and that monster hangover that was waiting to pounce when she opened her eyes this morning.
Regret, no stranger to him these days, ground through Landry like a giant set of jagged gears that refused to mesh, snagging on each other instead.
Highbridge began spearing pieces of stew meat, with exaggerated stabs of his cooking fork. It was no great trick to guess whom he’d like to stab.
“You’re absolutely right, sir. One bad night in a barroom shouldn’t ruin Ria, not in this day and age—and heaven knows she wasn’t the first person to make an error in judgment—but what about the remainder of the evening? What about what happened after that oh-so-dignified exit from—that place?”
“Aren’t you jumping to a conclusion or two here?” Landry asked. “Not to mention way over the line between what’s your business and what’s mine?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t find it difficult to surmise the rest,” Highbridge responded, ignoring the reference to his blasted meddling.
Landry wanted to explode, to defend Ria and himself, to say he hadn’t slept with the woman, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
“So, basically,” he said instead, in a remarkably even tone, considering the tornado gathering force inside him, “you’re saying I deliberately got Ria drunk, carried her off like a caveman and had my way with her as soon as we were alone.”
“You said it, sir. I didn’t.”
Landry couldn’t contain the storm any longer. He doubled up one fist and slammed it down hard on the tabletop, releasing the worst of it with that single burst of furious energy.
Highbridge didn’t so much as flinch. He did raise his eyebrows slightly, though, a clear indication that Landry had just confirmed all his suspicions.
“Look,” Landry half growled, when he had enough control to risk speaking at all, “if your opinion of me is as low as it seems to be, why the hell do you stay here? Why did you follow me out here from Chicago in the first place?”
Highbridge looked mildly surprised by the inquiry. “Why, that’s quite simple, sir. You needed me.”
“I’ll be damned,” Landry marveled, half under his breath.
“Most likely not,” Highbridge observed, before going on. “Contrary to what you apparently believe, I happen to think very highly of you, sir. You can be quite full of yourself, it’s true, and you seem to have only two speeds—full throttle and dead stop. You often act before you think—I give you the move to this ranch and the buffalo-herd-that-isn’t as examples—and yet—”
“Yet?” Landry prompted dangerously. Was there a favorable opinion hidden someplace in Highbridge’s latest speech?
The other man actually smiled. “And yet,” he went on, “you are highly intelligent, you genuinely care about people, I think, and you’re gentle with animals, even those great, lumbering bison of yours. I’ve never seen you turn away from hard work, or any kind of challenge—be it in the boardroom of a Fortune 500 company or on the range. When somebody needs help, you’re there to lend a hand.” A pause, probably for dramatic effect. “Finally, I believe you possess a very high degree of integrity, as well.”
“Gee,” Landry drawled, with all the conciliatory goodwill of a splash of battery acid, “thanks heaps. Now I know I haven’t lived in vain.”
Highbridge spread his hands, one of which held a meat fork with a chunk of beef on the end of it. “Splendid,” he said, paying no mind to Landry’s sarcasm. “I shall rest assured, henceforth, that my point has been properly made.”
“Until I piss you off again,” Landry qualified.
Highbridge clucked his tongue. “Sir, sir, sir. Such language does not become you.”
“I give up,” Landry muttered.
“Excuse me, sir?” Highbridge asked. The pretentious old geezer—he hadn’t missed a word Landry had said. He had the acute hearing of a hawk and the eyesight to go along with it.
“Never mind,” Landry bit out.
Flustered, he retreated to his private space, took a long, hot shower, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and then fell facedown across his bed, finally giving in to the exhaustion he’d been sidestepping all day.
Landry awoke several hours later, more rummy than rested, but hungry as a Montana grizzly coming out of hibernation at the ragged end of a long, hard winter. He lay there, sprawled across the mattress, for several minutes, waiting for the decomposition of deep sleep to reverse itself and render him from a collection of subatomic particles to a solid human being again. Then he rolled out, visited the bathroom and finally set his course for the kitchen.
When he got closer—it was a big house, even with fully half of it unfinished—he caught the savory scent of Highbridge’s hopped-up version of beef stew. It was his specialty, served only when he was either celebrating or trying to restore domestic tranquility after a dustup of some kind. The Brit was even a little vain about the concoction, with ample reason, in Landry’s opinion.
The stuff was magnificent.
Highbridge guarded the recipe the way the Secret Service guarded an incumbent president, though he did admit to adding a whole bottle of burgundy when he was feeling—as he put it—“a bit on the adventurous side.”
Landry’s stomach rumbled in anticipation, and his m
outh had been watering since he caught the first whiff. Stew was stew, but when Highbridge upgraded the ingredients, it was a gesture.
Hopefully not a farewell gesture.
Even if he was probably the only cowboy in the world who employed a butler, and suffered a degree of secret embarrassment over it, Landry was fond of Highbridge, would hate to see him leave.
He was brooding over that disturbing possibility when he lifted one palm to shove open the kitchen door, meaning to find out what the real deal was and end the suspense, when he caught the timbre of a voice that was at once strange and familiar.
Landry forgot all about being hungry as he froze, having pegged the speaker’s identity almost instantly.
It was Jess Sutton—his father.
Landry hesitated long enough to draw a deep breath and let it out slow and easy.
Then he pushed open the swinging door and strode into the kitchen as if he owned it. Which, of course, he did.
Sure enough, there was his dad, looking older than the last time Landry had seen him, his clothes a few years out of date, the hair plugs furrowing his crown and the gold chain hanging around his neck dead giveaways that he still considered himself a ladies’ man.
Highbridge sat across the table from Jess, and they were playing cards, most likely gin rummy, since Highbridge didn’t go in for poker or blackjack—church-basement bingo was his pet vice. Seeing Landry, the butler cleared his throat, politely excused himself from the game and beat a quick retreat to his quarters.
Jess stayed right where he was. He tossed down his hand of cards and regarded Landry with a faded version of his own blue eyes, and Zane’s, as well. A little smile quirked the corner of the old man’s mouth, but that must have been mostly reflex, Landry thought, because the man did not look happy.
For a few long moments, father and son simply watched each other, both of them waiting stubbornly for the other one to speak.
It was going to be a long, long wait, as far as Landry was concerned.
Finally, Jess gave in, with the usual air of magnanimity, and ended the stalemate with a low, gruff chuckle and “Well, boy, I didn’t expect a welcome-home party, but I thought you might be able to scrape up a simple hello.”
Landry headed for the slow cooker on the counter. Lifted the lid, drew in the aroma. “All right,” he said, replacing the lid and keeping his back to the unwanted visitor. “Hello.”
Jess chuckled again, a raspy sound, probably the result of years of chain-smoking and cheap whiskey. “You’re every bit as ornery as your brother,” he said. “But you don’t have his kind of self-control. Guess that’s because he’s older.”
Landry turned around, leaned against the counter and folded his arms. He wasn’t going to argue.
“What do you want?” he rasped.
“Why is that always one of the first questions you or Zane ask me?”
“Because you always want something,” Landry replied. “What is it this time? And don’t tell me you blew the five grand I sent you and need another ‘loan’ to save your neck, because if that’s the case, Dad, you’re shit out of luck.”
Jess leaned back in his chair, hands raised to shoulder level, palms out, as though expecting a knuckle sandwich, but his eyes belied the gesture. As little time as Landry had spent with his father over the years, he knew how to read the man’s eyes—a kid on the fringes learned the skill early—and they indicated a combination of shrewd amusement and a sort of bland sorrow.
“I’m not here to ask for anything, son,” Jess replied, when he was ready. “I did what I said I’d do with that five thousand dollars—I paid my gambling debts and put as much distance between me and the poor man’s Las Vegas as I could—as quick as I could. Since you wouldn’t believe me anyhow, I’ll spare you the speech about how much I appreciated what you did.”
Landry frowned—it was a given that he wasn’t buying Jess’s assertion that he “wasn’t there to ask for anything.” Reno wasn’t exactly on the other side of the world, but it was a long way for a guy like his dad to travel, especially now that he was aging. Never able to hold on to a car—or a job, for that matter—when Jess Sutton decided to hit the road, whether out of necessity or simply because he felt that old familiar yen to see what was over the next hill, he either bummed rides or took a bus.
“Does Zane know you’re here?” Landry finally asked.
Jess shook his head. “Not yet,” he admitted.
“I shouldn’t have to remind you,” Landry ventured darkly, and at some length, “that Nash is happy living with Zane and Brylee.”
“So I hear.”
“Reminder number two,” Landry pressed. “Those papers you signed last year, relinquishing custody of the boy, were binding. You can’t just change your mind, swoop in here and carry the kid off to wherever it is you’re headed.”
“Check,” Jess said, with weary resignation. He studied Landry pensively for a few moments, then went on. “Would you mind sitting down? I’m getting a kink in my neck looking up at you.”
Landry sat. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he asked, parceling out the words one by one.
Jess shook his head, the familiar easy smile back on his lips, resting there, placid and singularly annoying. His hair was getting thinner, Landry observed, but there were no discernible cuts or bruises on him, so it was probably safe to assume he was telling it straight about paying off his gambling buddies, if nothing else. To Jess, lies and the truth were not polar opposites—they were options, tools to adjust his own flexible reality. In fact, it was a pretty good bet that he’d been twisting things around to suit himself for so long that he no longer knew the difference. If he ever had.
“Maybe,” Jess said, “I’m here to try and mend a few fences, with you and your brother. No need of it with Nash—he understands me. Accepts me as I am.”
Landry leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “Nash is a kid,” he said flatly. “Maybe he still thinks you give a damn for anybody but yourself. Thing is, he’s smart, so he’ll probably grow out of it.”
Jess sighed deeply. “I know I made a few mistakes—”
“A few mistakes?” Landry bit back the other things he could have said, for whatever reason, but he was remembering the hard times just the same, the old days, when he and Zane were kids. He was remembering, in vivid detail, how his mom could never afford to wear clothes that didn’t come from a thrift store or a yard sale or a charity box in some church—and how many times she’d had to scrounge behind the cushions of a ratty couch in a rented trailer or a run-down motel “suite,” trying to come up with enough change for him and Zane to pay for lunch at school. Maddie Rose had known without being told that her sons, right from kindergarten on, would have gone hungry before they’d accepted a state-sponsored meal.
They’d done just that, a number of times.
Landry could still feel that grinding ache in his belly, on occasion, along with the secret shame of doing without. Even now, with more money than he knew what to do with, he never took a plate of food for granted.
“Okay,” Jess conceded, after clamping his jaws together for a while, “I made a lot of mistakes. But here’s something to think about, Mr. Gentleman Rancher—it might just be that you need to forgive me even more than I need to be forgiven, because holding on to all those grudges is eating you up inside. Even I can see that. What it all boils down to is this. You’ll never be genuinely happy until you let go of all that resentment and move on.”
“Tell that to Zane,” Landry retorted, feeling his neck and ears go crimson. “He’s about as happy as a man can be, now that he and Brylee are married and about to start a family, and he probably wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.”
Jess let out a long, low whistle of exclamation. “Harsh,” he said.
Landry said nothing, because, secretly, he agreed. He had spoken harshly, and he did wonder if despising his father all these years hadn’t messed up his life in some pretty significant ways. He considered his w
orkaholic career strategy, back in Chicago, and then there was the way he’d never been able to connect with Susan—
“Inside, boy, you’re still an angry kid, wanting the world to make things up to you,” Jess went on, with the utter confidence of somebody who’d never felt the need to stay faithful to his wife and stick around to help her raise their children. Maybe he figured he was on some kind of psychological roll here—Dr. Phil with a little more hair and a gambling habit. “As for Zane, he might have it together now, but he was wild for a long time. And he’s got one bad marriage behind him, just like you do—Tiffany, I think her name was. Pretty little thing, with curves in all the right places, but about as deep as a mud puddle after a weeklong heat wave.”
“Is this going somewhere?” Landry asked. “Or is it just your normal self-aggrandizing song and dance?”
Jess favored him with another benevolent look, this one bordering on saintliness. “My point,” he said, “is that somewhere along the line, Zane must have decided blaming me wasn’t worth the energy it took. That—and the fact that he’s found the right woman in this Brylee gal—is why he’s happy and you’re not quite there.”
Who says I’m not happy? Landry thought peevishly.
Maybe he didn’t ask the question out loud because he wasn’t ready to hear the answer.
Jess was quiet, too, letting all that pontificating sink in, Landry supposed.
Finally, when he couldn’t sit still for another second, Landry shoved back his chair, stood and stalked over to the Crock-Pot. He took two bowls from a cupboard, two spoons from a drawer.
Then, using a ladle, he plopped some of Highbridge’s stew into one of the bowls, jammed in a spoon and set the food down in front of his father with enough force to send some of the thick broth spilling over the side to stain the tablecloth. After that, he filled the second bowl for himself.
The two men ate in silence for a while. Then Jess pushed his bowl away, sighed and said, “That’s good grub, but I can’t eat like I used to.” He chuckled dryly. “Can’t do a lot of things like I used to.”
Big Sky Secrets Page 19
