Landry hoped his old man wasn’t planning to elaborate on that statement. He still had an appetite, and he wanted to keep it until he’d stowed away some more of Highbridge’s specialty.
Instead, Jess shifted on his chair, extracted a beat-up wallet from his hip pocket and opened it to pull out a photograph, carefully trimmed to fit in one of the little plastic sleeves.
“If anybody had good cause to carry a grudge,” he said sadly, “it was this woman.”
Landry glanced at the picture, blinked and then squinted, not quite believing his eyes.
“Your mother,” Jess added unnecessarily.
Yep, the worn image, probably a product of one of those cheap instant cameras, showed Maddie Rose sitting up in a hospital bed, wearing a robe, the paisley turban on her head there to hide the loss of her once-abundant hair. She was impossibly thin, her formerly vibrant skin had turned a muddy shade of gray and the shadows under her eyes were as purple as fresh bruises. Her cheeks were sunken and gaunt, her arms sprouting needles and tubes. And in spite of all that, she was smiling.
To make the scene all the more unreal, there was Jess Sutton, right beside her, perched on the edge of her mattress, with one arm wrapped firmly around Maddie Rose’s sparrow-delicate shoulders. She was resting her head on his shoulder, as naturally as if he’d never abandoned her to scramble for a living and raise two obstinate, hyperactive boys on her own.
“I was there at the hospital with her, when she passed away,” Jess said, his voice convincingly hoarse, his eyes misted over as he gazed into the distance. “I told Maddie Rose I was sorry for all the things I did, and even more for everything I didn’t do. You know what she said?”
Landry didn’t—couldn’t—reply. His throat was too constricted, and he had to deal with the scalding sensation behind his eyes.
“Maddie Rose said—” Jess had to stop, clear his throat, start over. “She said she’d always believed that most folks did the best they knew how, with what resources they had, and that I was no exception. She wouldn’t have taken me back, or anything like that, even if she’d lived, but your mother was willing to make peace with the past and let all the bad memories go.”
Landry couldn’t refute any of what Jess said—not after he’d looked at that picture and seen the beatific expression on his dying mother’s face—but he wasn’t about to brush aside all the things he’d seen Maddie Rose grapple with over the years, either. He sure as hell wasn’t.
So he got up and left the kitchen without another word.
Back in his room, Landry swapped the sweatpants for jeans and a shirt, pulled on socks and boots and headed for the barn.
There was nothing to do but ride—ride until he could think straight again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BY THE TIME the Sunday sun finally sank behind the western horizon, leaving a soft lavender twilight behind to darken slowly into a star-spangled country night, Ria felt good, bordering on terrific.
No trace of the hangover from hell lingered and, sore as her thigh muscles were from that morning’s unavoidable horseback ride, undertaken at Landry’s insistence, she’d had a productive day, tending to chores, chatting with Quinn, who worked tirelessly beside her the whole time.
Last night’s brief but profound sense of clarity was back, too—a quiet, joyous secret for the time being, something to ponder in her heart as well as her mind, too sacred to share just yet. Better to wait and see if the transformation was a lasting one—if it was, she might or might not talk about it.
Deep down, Ria still wasn’t convinced that the experience had been anything more than a fluke or—and this seemed likely, sensible woman that she was—simply her brain’s biochemical attempt to counteract all that alcohol with a flood of feel-good hormones. Still, she could hope the new state of mind would continue and, darn it, she was happy.
For once, she meant to take each moment as it came, counting her blessings instead of examining and reexamining the past, trying to work out the whys and the wherefores. Nor, she promised herself, would she stray into the future—here be dragons—figuratively peering into some crystal ball for clues.
So it was that Ria hummed while she made dinner, enjoyed every bite and puttered about the house, tidying a stack of magazines here, dusting there, while Quinn worked in the kitchen, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher.
That was their agreement: one of them would cook; the other would clean up afterward. They’d trade off, they’d decided, so neither of them had to do the same tasks over and over again.
Later, still in a state of quiet bliss, Ria sat on the porch steps for nearly an hour, content to watch the stars pop out of a black sky like little silver surprises, and to breathe in the combined scents of flowers blooming all around her. Eventually, though, the mosquitoes drove her inside again, and she made her way to the kitchen, planning to brew a cup of herbal tea and call it a night.
Quinn sat at the computer, her shoulders slightly hunched, and it took Ria a moment to translate the girl’s body language.
“Is something wrong?” Ria asked, concerned but still in a very Zen mood. Methodically, she selected a tea bag—raspberry lemon—from the appropriate canister, then opened the cupboard door to choose a mug, all while she waited for Quinn to answer.
“Kind of,” Ria’s only niece said, after much delay, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ria frowned, forgot the tea-making process for a moment and turned to look over at Quinn. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”
Back stiff, shoulders rigid, Quinn seemed to be trying to block Ria’s view of the monitor, and with a slight and suspiciously furtive movement of her right hand, she worked the mouse, causing the screen to flicker and then go dark.
Ria didn’t move—somehow, crossing the room and standing next to Quinn would be an intrusion, it seemed to her, a violation of the child’s personal space.
It was strange, however—a buzz of tension charged the atmosphere, and, now that she’d shut off the computer, an obvious if subtle effort to hide something she’d seen on the monitor screen, she seemed frozen in place.
Even Bones, previously sleeping off his supper on his bed, which lay near Quinn’s feet, suddenly opened his eyes, lifted his head and perked up his ears.
Still, Quinn sat unmoving, keeping her back to Ria. The nape of her neck, visible where her hair parted to fall forward, over her shoulders, went pink. She’d been so different earlier, when she and Ria were still working outside, moving sprinklers around the front yard, and chattered a mile a minute all through supper.
Whatever she’d seen on the computer had changed all that.
Ria spent a few moments speculating on the possibilities—an online newspaper blurb about Meredith—Portland Businesswoman Indicted? A snarky email from one of the other girls who’d attended Clare’s slumber party? A posting on a lost-pet website, pleading for the return of a dog matching Bones’s description? What?
Finally, Ria simply said the girl’s name.
At last, Quinn turned around in the swivel chair, reluctance etched into every line of her, to look directly at Ria. The child’s happy glow, present since her return from the party at Whisper Creek, glowing brighter and brighter as the day went on. The time outside had been good for her, hours spent breathing fresh air, soaking up sunshine and getting a little exercise. The animated shine of healthy activity had faded from her eyes, and she looked impossibly tried, emotionally drained.
Before, Ria had been more curious than worried. Now she was becoming more and more alarmed, waiting for Quinn to speak.
When she finally did, tears were brimming in her eyes. “Somebody is trying to make you look bad,” she said, chin and voice wobbling while she struggled visibly to regain her composure. “There are some really awful people in this world!”
In a way, Ria was relieved. When it came to calamities, there were far worse things than petty smear campaigns—if that was what Quinn was telling her.
“Quinn,” she
said, crossing the room at last, “I need to know what’s going on.” She gestured toward the blank monitor. “Show me.”
Glumly, her niece turned around to face the nearly obsolete desktop again, made a few deft moves and brought the screen back to life.
Since she had a clear conscience, the image that met Ria’s eyes in the immediate aftermath of millions of pixels scrambling to reassemble themselves and create a whole, jolted her like a zap from a stun gun.
There she was, her last-night self, ridiculously drunk, right there in the Boot Scoot Tavern for all to see, barely able to remain upright, judging by the way she hung off Landry like a kudzu vine. She’d wrapped both arms around his neck, her head tilted back so she could look up at him with a bleary expression that came dangerously close to stupefied adoration. At the same time, she strongly resembled a critter stranded, frozen, in the middle of a dark road, blinded by oncoming headlights.
Even as she told herself it was no big deal—everybody made a fool of themselves at some point and, besides, places like the Boot Scoot were ground zero for the unwary—Ria felt a little sick. She drew in a quick, shallow breath and put a hand to her mouth. Having made a mutual agreement, no words required, she and Quinn changed places, Ria sinking into the chair, Quinn standing behind her.
“Is that really you?” Quinn asked, very softly after an interval marked only by the steady tick-tick-tick of the old-fashioned kitchen clock on the wall directly above Ria’s desk.
Ria didn’t answer right away, considering the question a rhetorical one, since there was no mistaking her identity in that picture. And she was busy checking out the string of comments posted underneath the image.
The first one was snide—and anonymous, of course, as chickenshit potshots usually were. “I guess we can all stop hoping for a hot date with a certain very sexy cowboy, girls. He’s obviously getting plenty of action.”
The following posts were of some consolation, but still humiliating to read.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, whoever you are, spying on people like that!” J.B. of Parable had scolded the instigator. “How petty and mean-spirited can you get?”
“This is definitely dirty pool!” accused K.C., also of Parable. “Sleazy stuff, no matter how you spin it. And what did Ria Manning ever do to you anyhow?”
“Some people,” added another woman, a resident of Three Trees, “have too much free time on their hands, going around taking pictures on the sly. Why don’t you get a life?”
Opal Beaumont didn’t even try to hide her identity—everybody in the county knew her, because she was married to a popular pastor and because she was a force to be reckoned with in her own right. “Just when I think I’ve seen it all, when it comes to just how low some folks will stoop, out of pea-green envy and spite, I run across something like this. Ria is a decent, hardworking woman, and you, Mr. or Ms. Anonymous, are a low-down coward in clear need of repentance. P.S., church services start at 9:15 and 11:00, every Sunday.”
Ria had to smile, albeit wanly, at Opal’s pitch for religious intervention.
After Opal, Cleo—Zane and Brylee Sutton’s outspoken housekeeper—put in her two bits. “Amen, my sister! I know Ria and she’s no drunk. Shame on you, whoever you may be, trying to make a good woman out to be a hussy when she certainly ain’t anything of the kind!”
With a ragged laugh, Ria closed her eyes, propped her elbows on either side of the keyboard and began rubbing the skin over her temples with the fingertips of both hands, hoping to avert the headache that was circling, drawing ever nearer, like a hawk about to swoop down on its prey.
“There are more,” Quinn said, gently massaging the rock-hard muscles in Ria’s neck and shoulders now. She made an effort, bless her, at bucking up, trying to find the bright side. “But the pictures aren’t so bad, really, now that I think about it, and anyway, you can see how the whole thing backfired. Whoever took those pictures will be lucky if they aren’t tracked down and lynched!”
Of course there were more pictures, but Ria didn’t need to see them. The effect would be the same—she’d feel more embarrassment, more regret, more anger at being singled out and deliberately humiliated by some stranger. And she already had all the embarrassment, regret and anger she could handle.
She opened her eyes, sat up straight and drew in a resolute breath. She’d just have to take responsibility—she had behaved badly, after all—find ways to brazen this thing through until another small scandal took its place. She would hold her head high and endure the inquisitive glances and small barbs that were bound to come her way in the near future.
What else could she do, besides making sure she never made the same mistake again?
A light rap at the back door startled Ria out of her musings, and it must have jolted Quinn, too. She stopped massaging her aunt’s aching shoulders and stepped back, looking toward the door as though she expected a band of Puritans were just the other side, carrying torches and demanding that the scarlet woman be handed over. Ria got up, not afraid, but grateful for the distraction from her much-publicized fall from grace, and went to the door, peering through the glass in the oval window to see who was there.
She recognized Zane Sutton, near neighbor and husband of her good friend, Brylee, standing there on the porch, looking apologetic and mildly anxious, both at once.
Ria turned the lock, twisted the knob and pulled, then unlatched the hook that fastened the screen door beyond.
“Zane,” she said, troubled because she knew he wouldn’t have come over, especially at night, and without calling first, if he didn’t have a good reason for being there. “What is it?”
Zane, the movie star turned devoted husband and respected rancher, looked chagrined, though he attempted a reassuring grin. He acknowledged Quinn with a glance and a slight nod before turning his attention back to Ria. “This is kind of awkward,” he said, “but I’m looking for Landry. He got riled and took off on horseback a few hours ago, according to Highbridge, and, well, he ought to be back by now.” He paused, cleared his throat and went on. “I was hoping he might be here, but it looks like I was mistaken.”
Ria shook her head, trying to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, making it impossible to answer. Had there been an accident? Was Landry lying somewhere out there in the gathering darkness, hurt or even—
No. No.
But, just for a millisecond, she was back in Portland, standing in her front doorway, one beautiful spring day, stricken by a terrible premonition as she watched the district fire chief and the chaplain getting out of a car on the quiet street, their faces grim as they prepared themselves to tell a wife that her husband was dead.
Ria reined in her imagination, fixed her attention on the here and now to such an extent that she felt hyperalert.
“We haven’t seen Landry—Mr. Sutton, I mean—since this morning,” Quinn put in, cautiously helpful. “Are you going to call the police?”
Zane managed a flicker of a grin then, shook his head once. “Best not be too hasty when it comes to mustering the troops,” he said. His gaze shifted back to Ria. “Apparently, Landry had a run-in with somebody earlier in the evening, and he’s got a quick temper. He can handle a horse as well as anybody, though, and if he runs into trouble, he’ll take care of it.” Zane stopped and sighed, and Ria wondered if he believed what he was saying, or if he simply regretted worrying her and wanted to backtrack a little. “Knowing Landry, he’s fine, holed up somewhere out there, thinking things through. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
Ria opened her mouth, closed it again.
For all Zane’s reassurances, she had to fight an almost primitive urge to put on her boots and a warm jacket, grab a flashlight, go out and personally search every inch of every acre of Hangman’s Bend Ranch until she found Landry.
Well practiced at fretting over various worst-case scenarios, her brain wanted to obsess—even panic.
What if—what if—what if—? The half-formed que
stion echoed in her head, but it would not come out of her mouth. Which was probably a good thing.
She remembered to breathe. Did so.
Zane tilted his head slightly to one side, looked closely at Ria’s face. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.
Ria managed a nod.
Once again, Quinn spoke up. “If Landry shows up, should we say you’re looking for him?” she asked. She might have been worried, like Ria, but her eyes were wide with awe, just the same, as she took in the masculine perfection that was Zane Sutton. She’d probably never met a famous person before, and she was very young, so a little ogling was normal.
“I guess it would be okay to tell him I stopped by,” Zane said, with a hoarse chuckle and a move toward the door behind him. “It’ll probably make him mad, since he’s bound to resent my interference, like always, but that’s my problem, not yours.”
Still strangely mute, Ria followed Zane out onto the porch, saw his gelding, Blackjack, waiting patiently in the bright glow of the motion light affixed to the roof.
It was already dark—and he’d come on horseback? While that explained why she and Quinn hadn’t heard the distinctive roar of a truck engine, it worried her, too. Whatever he’d said about Landry being able to take care of himself, Zane was prepared to search for his brother in places where a vehicle couldn’t go.
The pit of Ria’s stomach tightened hard, as though some invisible fist had closed around it. Finally, she found her voice, though, and when she heard it, as if from a short distance, a place outside the confines of skin and skull, she barely recognized it as her own. “You’ll keep looking for him, though?”
Zane, who had been holding his hat in one hand while he was inside the house, put it back on his head with a decisive motion of his right arm. Then he nodded. “Till hell freezes over, if necessary,” he replied.
And then he walked away.
“Maybe we should join the search, too,” Quinn said eagerly when Ria went back into the house.
Big Sky Secrets Page 20
