He didn't try to disguise the disgust as he continued. "Joan dearly loves attention. You probably know that."
The girl was missing, possibly even dead. Didn't he care? Seething, Melinda remained silent as she tried to sort through what she had learned. Then, a memory pricked her — that odd name he had blurted out at the breakfast table. Was there some tie to Joan?
"Who is this Roy Finch character you mentioned?"
"It's not important."
Then, as if to silence her, he picked up his CB radio receiver and spoke into it: "We're almost there. Have you got everything ready?"
"Sure, Mac. I told you we did."
"I hope you've been taking care of things while I was gone, Preston."
"I've managed fine without you. You're not indispensable, you know."
Melinda was reassured by the mellow sound of her brother-in-law's voice. Surely the other owner of the Sacramento Ranch couldn't be as difficult as the McClure she had already met.
3
The entrance to Sacramento Ranch was framed by a wrought-iron arch resting atop two lofty pillars of stone. Beyond the gateway was a two‑story, adobe ranchhouse splashed with soft earth tones. Balconies and windows were outlined with intricate black metalwork, reminding Melinda of pictures she had seen of Mexican haciendas.
Desert plants were scattered in the foreground. Nearby, a large barrel cactus wore its bright red blossoms like a proud usher. Sticks of yucca plants resembling broom handles sprouted from clusters of fleshy green, spiked leaves.
As the jeep halted in front of the house, Melinda guessed that the tall, young man striding towards them was Preston. Mac jumped out, walked around the jeep, and opened her door. He took her elbow as she stepped down gingerly, suddenly aware that her sore muscles had stiffened during the jostling ride. When she looked up, she saw Mac's expression grow guarded as he watched his brother approach. Preston, in turn, did not even favor Mac with a glance as he grabbed Melinda's hand for a warm greeting.
"Melinda, I can't believe it's really you!" He released her hand, stepped back and examined her. "Look at you. Are you sure you're all right? Should we send for a doctor?"
"No, no," she protested. "I'm fine."
"I feel awful about what happened to you. Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
Melinda mumbled something about a sudden impulse, then staggered with weakness as she took several steps away from the jeep. Mac rushed over to her, tucked her arm through his and motioned Preston to take her other arm.
"She needs a doctor," Preston said, as he helped steady her.
"No, she doesn't." Mac overruled him. "She just needs rest."
"How do you know? You don't have the medical degree. I'm the veterinarian."
The brothers glowered at each other like two bulls ready to butt heads. Melinda felt uncomfortably like a buffer zone between their silent, warring personalities as they assisted her up the sidewalk.
They shared striking physical characteristics. Both were tall and tanned, with dark eyes and hair. Mac was perhaps the taller of the two. But clearly, the younger brother seemed far more amiable and charming. Preston's next stern words, however, made her realize the McClures might not be so different, after all.
"Everyone who lives out here knows better than to drive into a canyon during a heavy rain." Preston's thick eyebrows wrinkled in a perfect imitation of his brother's scowling disapproval. "It was a miracle Mac happened to be there."
"Yes," Melinda commented dryly. "Thank goodness I wasn't the only idiot out that day."
She bit her tongue. Her statement hadn't come out quite the way she intended — or had it?
Mac grimaced at her. "I was taking care of the stock. And the difference between you and me is I knew what I was doing."
Preston hastily broke in to change the subject.
"Did you have enough food?" he asked Mac.
"Enough. Yeah."
"I guess you were comfortable then." Preston then frowned at his brother. "Please tell me you didn't make her play cards with you. You lose more girlfriends that way."
"Shut up, Preston," Mac growled.
Preston gave Melinda a long, appraising look, which he then switched to Mac. His curiosity was so visible she almost could read his mind. She and Mac had spent five days together. What had happened between them? What had they talked about?
It did not take a genius to guess their relationship was less than harmonious after their forced confinement together. Preston seemed amused. And Mac was quick to see his brother's smirk.
"You think something's funny, do you?" Mac turned to Melinda. "You never did answer my brother's question. Why didn't you let us know you were coming out here?"
Melinda stalled by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as the three of them slowly climbed the steps. She thought it over. Maybe she had been wrong in her assessment of that telephone conversation back at her office. If so, then perhaps it was best to be frank.
"Quite honestly, I didn't tell you because I had the impression you didn't want me here. I didn't intend to argue with you about it. So I just came."
"So you got muleheaded, and ended up in one heckuva mess," Mac muttered. "Maybe you'll agree now you really were better off staying home."
"I follow my instincts. And that comment you just made confirms I was right. I don't think either one of you is overjoyed to see me. Nor would you be, even if these were the best of circumstances. Even if Joan were still — here."
She thought again of Joannie's letter, imploring her to drop in — not to let anyone know she was coming. Melinda's suspicions deepened as she watched the almost conspiratorial look the two brothers exchanged. When Preston spoke up to reassure her, he flashed her a winning smile.
"Don't pay any attention to Mac. Joan's only sister? Not welcome? That's ridiculous."
He released Melinda's arm to pull open the heavy, carved mahogany door that led into the house. But when she heard the trilling of a mockingbird, Melinda hesitated momentarily. She peered around and located the gray and white bird perched atop a weather vane on a nearby barn.
"Infernal bird." Mac stood aside to give her room to enter the house. "It gets its days and nights mixed up all the time."
"I think it sounds lovely." Melinda felt obliged to defend the valiant songster.
"Wait'll it starts up at two or three in the morning, eh, Mac? It doesn't sound so lovely then," Preston said.
Melinda listened a few more moments, then summoned the strength to walk over the threshold on her own power. Inside, she blinked in the dim light of the hallway as a tall, thin woman slowly descended the stairs in front of her. The woman's gray hair was pulled into a severe bun. Her pale blue eyes surveyed Melinda from head to toe.
"So. You're Joan's sister."
Her aloof tone gave Melinda the same feeling of animosity demonstrated by Mac — that this woman, too, greeted with displeasure anything or anyone connected with Joan.
"This is Harriet," Preston broke in hastily. "After a few days in her care, I guarantee you'll be as good as new."
Maybe so, Melinda thought to herself — if she doesn't poison me first. From her elevated position, the stoic, elderly woman scowled down at the two brothers as if it were she, not they, who ruled the premises.
"Why are y'all just letting her stand there?" she demanded. "Bring her on upstairs. Can't you see she's about to drop in her tracks? You've been taught better manners."
"We just got here," Preston answered defensively.
Harriet continued down the stairs, nudged him out of the way and put her arm around Melinda. Despite her actions, the woman's severe expression never eased.
"Please. Just a minute — " Melinda turned back to Preston. "Haven't you heard anything at all about Joan? Anything?"
Mac fixed his full attention on Preston as the younger McClure hesitated.
"No," Preston said, as his eyes shifted to avoid meeting Melinda's. "Nothing."
"But if she were lo
st somewhere, out — in this weather — could she have survived?"
The McClures glanced at each other uneasily. Neither offered an answer. At that moment, Harriet again took charge. She tugged at Melinda's arm.
"You can talk later," she said firmly. "Right now, you get yourself to bed."
When they reached the top of the stairs, out of sight of the brothers, Mac's muffled voice drifted up from below.
"I'm warning you, Preston…"
His voice faded before Melinda could hear the rest of his threat. Preston's sarcastic retort, however, was loud and clear.
"The same old Mac. All you ever think about is money. Can't you ever change? Can't you just once stop telling me what to do? Oh, and by the way. Welcome home, brother. Glad you're okay."
Harriet hurried Melinda down the hallway into a bedroom, and shut the door soundly as though to keep out the raised voices. A sigh escaped her as she led Melinda to the enormous king‑sized bed heavily draped with a bright gold comforter.
Melinda sat down wearily as Harriet disappeared into the adjoining dressing room. Moments later, the woman returned with a nightgown.
"This was Joan's. She wouldn't mind, do you think? Not for her sister."
Melinda resented Harriet's use of the past tense. Her eyes moistened as she accepted the gown, and put the silky blue material to her cheek. Did everyone here think Joan was dead?
"No, she wouldn't mind," Melinda whispered.
Then, she became aware that Harriet's austere expression had softened into a mixture of compassion and curiosity.
"What you need is a nice, warm bath." Harriet disappeared into the next room, where Melinda heard the sound of running water. Soon Harriet reappeared.
"I'll run down and fetch you a bite to eat while you freshen up."
After Harriet left, Melinda stepped into the hot bath and soaked, letting weary relief soothe her. Then she reached up and unbraided the pigtails in her gritty hair. She gave her scalp a vigorous scrub with fragrant shampoo.
Much later, after she dried her hair and lavished her body with lotion, she slipped into Joan's gown. Melinda then dabbed on a little perfume and surveyed herself in the mirror. While the bruises on her face were not so painful, the ugly black smudges remained.
She dug into her bedraggled purse, and pulled out some foundation makeup to disguise the ugly wounds. When at last she completed the task, she didn't look that much better. But at least she was beginning to feel like a woman again.
The tapping at the door announced Harriet's return with a tray of food. Harriet bustled in, ordered Melinda into bed, then arranged a tray filled with hot biscuits, gravy, steak, potatoes, salad and a slice of apple pie before her. Harriet stood, hands on hips, to examine her patient.
"You look a darned sight better. Well, eat. Get some sleep. You must be exhausted. Just holler down the stairs if you need anything else."
Melinda sniffed the food with relish, hardly noticing when Harriet left. After her recent diet of soup and crackers, the steamy aromas drifting from the tray made her ravenous.
She attacked the food, positive she could eat every bite. But her shrunken stomach could hold only a few small morsels. With trembling hands, she lifted the tray to one side. It had been a long, grueling day.
Melinda reached over and turned out the lamp on the nightstand, then succumbed to the luxury of the soft mattress.
At last, Michael — Mac, rather — was rid of his burden of taking care of her. And she told herself she was grateful to be rid of his presence. But as she wavered on the brink of sleep, Melinda pictured his face as she had seen it in unguarded moments.
What was he really like? She remembered the feel of his rough hands tending her. Could they be more gentle under different circumstances? Melinda shoved her face into the pillow and willed her mind to cease such foolish thoughts. Then she curled on her side to drift into a troubled sleep.
Once, during the night, she was aware of a figure standing still above her, but she was not frightened. She recognized Mac's familiar outline in the dim light from the hallway, and knew he was checking on her as he had so many times before during her illness.
"I heard you call out," he whispered. "Are you all right?"
Melinda pretended to sleep. She knew she couldn't trust herself to look up into those discerning eyes. She felt too alone, too vulnerable. He would see far more than she intended. When he at last turned and quietly left the room, Melinda was dismayed by the melancholy that enveloped her.
The next morning, she was awakened by the mockingbird chirping outside her window where bright sunshine filtered through the pulled drapes. Its happy song lifted her spirits. She sat up with vigor. She'd had enough of the pampered lady routine.
Melinda massaged a few rebellious muscles in her legs to work out the stiffness, then hopped out of bed. She stood, stretched and then reached over to don a robe hanging on a nearby closet door. After opening the curtains, she examined the scene below.
From her upstairs vantage point, she spotted five or six workers as they moved about between the stables and corrals. One tall, sandy-haired young man carrying a saddle hoisted over his shoulder spotted her and waved familiarly. She waved back. Her attention then was caught by the many horses that filled the surrounding pastures, and cattle grazing in the distance.
Wanting a better look, Melinda opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the veranda. Her artist's eye was caught by the reddish hue cast over the vista by the rising sun. This place would make a wonderful backdrop for an advertising display — something like men's cologne, for example. Something that sounded manly.
"Pssst!"
Startled, Melinda peered down to try and trace the source of that sound. She spotted a man half-hidden in the shadow of a juniper tree just below her. She bent her head and leaned over the railing to get a better look. Finally, she decided it was the same young man who had waved at her earlier. He must have dropped the saddle and sneaked over after spotting her.
"No, Miss Bailey. Don't be looking at me. You'll attract attention. I heard you was here. I had to talk to you real quick like. So just listen."
Obediently, she stared straight ahead and pretended to admire the scenery. Nevertheless, she felt a little silly. And suddenly very conspicuous.
"My name's Sammy," he said in a lowered voice. "I knew your sister real well."
"How well?" Knowing her sister's reputation, Melinda was unable to keep the sharp edge out of her voice.
"Not that well. I mean, not like that. Not from her part of it anyway. Good gravy, we were just friends."
"All right, Sammy. I'm sorry. What is it you wanted to say?"
"I can't be discussing it right now. You'll understand why later. Anyway, when I heard you was here, I knew I had to look you up. Joan told me something. Something — private. I just know it'll be okay to pass it on to you. It'll make me feel a darned sight better just to get it off my chest."
Melinda wrapped her fists around the railing, and willed herself to keep looking straight ahead. "If it's that important, why haven't you taken this information to the McClures? Or the sheriff?"
"I can't, Miss Bailey. I can't because — there's something awful peculiar going on around here. And it might involve them. All of them. The sheriff. Everybody. The McClures are mighty powerful around here. Understand? Meet me, would you? Tonight? I'll set up a ladder here, climb up your terrace and we can talk. How about midnight? That way it'll be good and dark. I'll have something to show you, too."
"Well — I — guess so. Sure." Melinda privately asked herself just what business she had inviting this seemingly harmless stranger up to her room, alone. For all she knew, he could be Joan's kidnapper — perhaps, even, her murderer.
At that moment, two events happened simultaneously. Melinda thought she saw movement from a shoulder of someone concealed just around the corner of the house. And Preston stepped up behind her on the terrace. Sammy walked hastily away, as though he were bound for some chore.
"Did you?" Melinda flushed. "It was probably just to myself. I do that all the time."
Preston's eyes narrowed as he watched Sammy's thin figure disappear into a barn. Then, he brightened and turned back to Melinda.
"Sorry to barge in like this. I tapped on your door. Nobody answered. I was worried, so I came on in. Anyway, I brought you some breakfast."
She followed him back into the bedroom, where she saw the tray he had placed on a small table by the bed. The rays of the sun blazing through the window caught Preston's face then, revealing the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. Stress lines.
"I took the breakfast tray away from Harriet," Preston said. "I wanted an excuse to look in on you this morning. I'll just leave now and give you a chance to eat."
"Wait — don't go." Melinda gestured at the chair by the window. "Please sit down."
Preston seemed reluctant, but he pulled out the chair and obliged.
"You're looking much better," he said lightly. "It must be because Harriet is looking after you. Mac is a good nurse only when it comes to a horse or a steer. And his cooking isn't the greatest, either. I know. I've had to eat it before."
"I have to admit I don't remember much about it," Melinda said. "We didn't have too many choices. And food was the last thing on my mind."
An uncomfortable silence drowned the conversation. Preston let his head droop, as his forehead wrinkled in thought.
"Well," he spoke at last. "I've been wanting to meet you. I'm just sorry it had to be under these circumstances."
With this opening, Melinda was ready to launch a barrage of questions. But he cut her off by gesturing at the food.
"Go on. Sit on the bed by the tray there. Eat something. That's the way. I just wanted you to know we sent some of the boys out to get your truck. They'll tow it back here. I'm not sure they'll be able to find any of your belongings, but they've been ordered to look."
Night of Shadows Page 5
