Best Kept Secrets

by Sandra Brown

  He covered her hand with his and flattened it against the mare’s sleek coat. The hair was coarse and short, and the vitality and strength of muscle beneath it was evident to the touch.

  The animal snuffled and took a hesitant step forward, but Reede shushed her. The stall seemed close and overheated. The fecund smell of new life in the making permeated the square enclosure. “She’s warm,” Alex commented breathlessly.

  “She sure is.”

  Reede moved closer to Alex and maneuvered her hand, together with his, down the contours of the mare’s body to her swollen underbelly. Alex gave a soft exclamation of surprise when she felt movement.

  “The foal.” Reede was so close his breath disturbed strands of her hair and she smelled the scent of his cologne, mingled with that of the stable.

  A swift kick against her palm made Alex laugh with spontaneous delight. She also gave a start of surprise and bumped against Reede. “So active.”

  “She’s breeding me a winner.”

  “She belongs to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the sire?”

  “I paid dearly for his services, but he was worth it. Good-looking stallion from Florida. Fancy Pants took to him right away. I think she was sorry when it was over. Maybe if he was around all the time, I wouldn’t have to worry about her getting out of line.”

  The pressure in Alex’s chest was such that she could barely breathe. Her inclination was to rest her cheek against the mare’s side and continue to listen to Reede’s lulling voice. Thankfully, her reason reasserted itself before she did anything so foolish.

  She pulled her hand from beneath his and turned. He was standing so close to her that her clothes brushed against his, and she had to tilt her head back until it was resting against the horse in order to look into his face.

  “Do all owners have access to the stables?”

  Reede stepped back and allowed her to move toward the opening.

  “Since I used to work for the Mintons, I guess they feel they can trust me.”

  “What kind of horse is she?” Alex said, reverting to her original question.

  “A Quarter Horse.”

  “A quarter of what?”

  “ ‘A quarter of what?’ ” He tossed back his head and laughed. Fancy Pants danced aside. “Jesus, that’s good. A quarter of what?” He unfastened the chain that had secured the mare to a metal ring in the wall, and then joined Alex outside the stall, carefully closing the gate behind him. “You don’t know much about horses, do you?”

  “Obviously not,” she replied tightly.

  Her embarrassment seemed to amuse him for only a moment. Then, frowning, he asked, “Was coming out here your idea?”

  “Junior invited me.”

  “Ah, that figures.”

  “Why should it figure?”

  “He’s always hot on the trail of the newest available broad.”

  Blood surged through Alex’s veins. “I am not available to Junior, or to anybody else. Neither am I a broad.”

  He subjected her to a slow and ridiculing once-over. “No, I guess you’re not. Too much lawyer and not enough woman. Don’t you ever relax?”

  “Not when I’m working on a case.”

  “And that’s what you were doing over drinks?” he asked scornfully. “Working on your case?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They’ve sure got funny methods of investigation in the Travis County D.A.’s office.” He turned his back on her and swaggered toward the opposite end of the building.

  “Wait! I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Subpoena me,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  “Reede!” Impulsively, she struck out after him and grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket. He stopped, glanced down where her fingers were curled into the age-softened leather, then came around slowly and stared at her with eyes as green and sharp as jungle spears.

  She let go of his sleeve and fell back a step. She wasn’t frightened; rather, she was shocked at herself. She hadn’t intended to call his name like that, and she certainly hadn’t intended to touch him, especially after what had happened in the stall.

  Wetting her lips nervously, she said, “I want to talk to you. Please. Off the record. To satisfy my own curiosity.”

  “I know the technique, Counselor. I’ve used it myself. You play chummy with the suspect, hoping that he’ll drop his guard and tell you something he’s trying to hide.”

  “It’s not like that. I just want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About the Mintons.”

  “What about them?”

  Standing with his feet widespread, pelvis tipped slightly forward, he slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, which pulled his jacket open across his chest. The stance was intimidatingly manly. It aroused her as much as it annoyed her. Alex tried to suppress both responses. “Would you say that Angus and Sarah Jo have a happy marriage?”

  He blinked and coughed. “What?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m asking for your opinion, not an analysis.”

  “What the hell difference does it make?”

  “Sarah Jo’s not the kind of woman I would have expected Angus to marry.”

  “Opposites attract.”

  “That’s too pat. Are they… close?”

  “Close?”

  “Close, as in intimate.”

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Of course you have. You lived here.”

  “Apparently, my mind doesn’t operate on the same prurient track as yours.” He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “But, we could change that.”

  Alex refused to let him provoke her, which she knew came closer to his intention than seduction. “Do they sleep together?”

  “I guess so. It’s none of my business what they do or don’t do in bed. Furthermore, I don’t care. I only care about what goes on in my bed. Why don’t you ask me about that?”

  “Because I don’t care.”

  Again, he gave her a slow, knowing grin. “I think you do.”

  “I hate being patronized, Mr. Lambert, just because I’m a woman prosecutor.”

  “Then stop being one.”

  “A woman?”

  “A prosecutor.”

  Mentally, she counted to ten. “Does Angus see other women?”

  She could see annoyance building up behind his green eyes. His patience with her was wearing thin. “Do you take Sarah Jo for a passionate woman?”

  “No,” Alex replied.

  “Do you figure that Angus has a healthy sexual appetite?”

  “If it matches his other appetites, I’d say yes.”

  “Then, I guess you’ve got your answer.”

  “Has their relationship affected Junior?”

  “How the hell should I know? Ask him.”

  “He’d only make some glib, dismissive comment.”

  “Which would be a nice way of telling you that you’re interfering with business that doesn’t concern you. I’m not as nice as he is. Butt out, lady.”

  “This does concern me.”

  He withdrew his hands from his hip pockets and folded his arms across his chest. “I can hardly wait to hear this rationalization.”

  She didn’t let his sarcasm daunt her. “His parents’ relationship might explain why Junior has had three failed marriages.”

  “That’s something else that’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business.”

  “How so?”

  “Because Junior loved my mother.”

  The words reverberated down the corridor of the quiet stable. Reede’s head went back with a snap, as if he’d sustained a quick, unexpected uppercut on the chin. “Who told you that?”

  “He did.” She watched him closely, adding softly, “He said you both loved her.”

  He stared at her for a considerable time, then shrugged. “In one way or another. So?”

  �
�Is that why Junior’s marriages didn’t work? Because he was still carrying a torch for my mother?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  “Okay.” Arrogantly, he angled his head to one side. “I don’t think Celina had shit to do with Junior’s marriages. It’s just that he can’t fuck for recreation without feeling guilty about it later, so to ease his conscience, he takes a wife every few years.”

  His statement was intended to offend her, and it did. She tried not to show how much. “Why do you think he feels guilty about it?”

  “Genetics. He’s got generations of southern chivalry flowing through his veins. That makes for a guilty conscience where the ladies are concerned.”

  “What about you?”

  A Cheshire-cat grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “I never feel guilty for anything I do.”

  “Even murder?”

  His grin collapsed and his eyes turned dark. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of your goddamn business. Anything else, Counselor?”

  “Yes. Tell me about your father.”

  Gradually, Reede lowered his arms to his sides. He gave her a hard, cold stare. Alex said, “I know your father died while you were still in high school. Junior mentioned it today. When he died, you came to live here.”

  “You have a morbid curiosity, Miss Gaither.”

  “I’m not curious. I’m looking for facts pertinent to my investigation.”

  “Oh, sure. Pertinent stuff like Angus’s sex life.”

  She gave him a reproving look. “Motives are what I’m after, Sheriff Lambert. As a law officer, you can identify with that, can’t you? Ever hear of motive and opportunity?” His eyes turned even colder. “I need to establish your frame of mind the night of my mother’s death.”

  “That’s bullshit. What has that got to do with my old man?”

  “Maybe nothing, but you tell me. If it’s irrelevant, why are you so touchy about it?”

  “Did Junior tell you how my old man died?” She shook her head. Reede snorted a bitter laugh. “I can’t imagine why not. The nasty details made big news around here. People talked about it for years.”

  He bent at the waist so they were standing eye to eye. “He choked to death on his own vomit, too drunk to save himself. That’s right, look shocked. It was pretty goddamned horrifying, especially when the principal of the high school called me out of class to tell me.”

  “Reede.” In an attempt to stop the flow of sarcastic words, Alex raised her hand. He swatted it aside.

  “No, if you’re so anxious to open all the closet doors and expose the skeletons, here it is. But brace yourself, baby, this one’s a dilly.

  “My daddy was the town drunk, a laughingstock, a worthless, pathetic, sorry excuse for a human being. I didn’t even cry when I heard he’d died. I was glad. He was a miserable, scummy son of a bitch who never did a single goddamn thing for me except make me ashamed that he was my father. And he wasn’t any happier about that than I was. Dickweed—that’s what he called me, usually right before he clouted me alongside the head. I was a liability to him.

  “But, like a fool, I kept pretending, wishing, that we were a family. I was always after him to come watch me play ball. One night he showed up at a game. He created such a scene stumbling up the bleachers, tearing down one of the banners when he fell, that I wanted to die of embarrassment. I told him never to come again. I hated him. Hated,” he repeated, rasping the word.

  “I couldn’t invite friends to my house because it was such a pigsty. We ate out of tin cans. I didn’t know there were things like dishes on the table and clean towels in the bathroom until I was invited to other kids’ houses. I made myself as presentable as possible when I went to school.”

  Alex regretted having lanced this festering wound, but she was glad he was talking freely. His childhood explained a lot about the man. But he was describing an outcast, and that didn’t mesh with what she knew about him.

  “I’ve been told that you were a ringleader, that the other kids gravitated to you. You made the rules and set the mood.”

  “I bullied myself into that position,” he told her. “In grade school, the other kids made fun of me, everybody except Celina. Then I got taller and stronger and learned to fight. I fought dirty. They stopped laughing. It became much safer for a kid to be my friend than my enemy.”

  His lip curled with scorn. “This’ll knock your socks off, Miss Prosecutor. I was a thief. I stole anything that we could eat or that might come in useful. You see, my old man couldn’t keep a job for more than a few days without going on a binge. He’d take what he’d earned, buy himself a bottle or two, and drink himself unconscious. Eventually, he gave up trying to work. I supported us on what I could earn after school doing odd jobs, and on what I could get away with stealing.”

  There was nothing she could say. He had known there wouldn’t be. That’s why he’d told her. He wanted her to feel rotten and small-minded. Little did he know that their childhoods hadn’t been that dissimilar, although she’d never gone without food. Merle Graham had provided for her physical needs, but she’d neglected her emotional ones. Alex had grown up feeling inferior and unloved. Empathetically she said, “I’m sorry, Reede.”

  “I don’t want your goddamn pity,” he sneered. “I don’t want anybody’s. That life made me hard and mean, and I like it that way. I learned early on to stand up for myself because it was for damn sure nobody else was going to go to bat for me. I don’t depend on anybody but myself. I don’t take anything for granted, especially people. And I’m damned and determined never to sink to the level of my old man.”

  “You’re making too much out of this, Reede. You’re too sensitive.”

  “Uh-huh. I want people to forget that Everett Lambert ever lived. I don’t want people to associate me with him. Ever.”

  He clenched his teeth and hauled her up to just beneath his angry face by the lapels of her coat. “I’ve lived down the unfortunate fact that I was his son for forty-three years. Now, just when folks are about to forget it, you come along and start asking nosy questions, raising dead issues, reminding everybody that I crawled up out of the gutter to get where I am.”

  He sent her backward with a hard push. She caught herself against the gate of a stall. “I’m sure that no one holds your father’s failures against you.”

  “You don’t think so? That’s the nature of a small town, baby. You’ll find out how it is soon enough, because they’ll start comparing you to Celina.”

  “That won’t bother me. I’ll welcome the comparisons.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Careful. When you round a blind corner, you’d better know what’s waiting for you.”

  “Care to be less oblique?”

  “It could go one of two ways. Either you won’t measure up to her, or you’ll find out that being like her isn’t all that terrific.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  His eyes swept over her. “Like her, looking at you reminds a man that he is one. And like her, you use that to your advantage.”

  “Meaning?”

  “She was no saint.”

  “I didn’t expect her to be.”

  “Didn’t you?” he asked silkily. “I believe you did. I think you’ve created this fantasy mother in your head and you expect Celina to fulfill it for you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Her strenuous denial sounded juvenile and obstinate. More calmly, she said, “It’s true that Grandma Graham thought the sun rose and set on Celina. I was brought up to believe she was everything a young woman should be. But I’m a woman myself now, and mature enough to realize that my mother was made of flesh and blood, with flaws, just like everybody else.”

  He studied her face for a moment. “Just remember that I warned you,” he said softly. “You should go back
to the Westerner, pack up your designer clothes and your legal briefs, and head for Austin. Leave the past alone. Nobody around here wants to remember that blight on Purcell’s history—particularly with that license hanging in the balance. They’d much rather leave Celina lying dead in this stable than—”

  “This stable?” Alex gasped. “My mother was killed here?”

  It was clear to her that he hadn’t intended to let that slip. He cursed beneath his breath before answering curtly, “That’s right.”

  “Where? Which stall?”

  “It doesn’t mat—”

  “Show me, damn you! I’m sick to death of your half answers and evasions. Show me where you found her body that morning, Sheriff.” She enunciated the last word carefully, reminding him that it was his sworn duty to protect and serve.

  Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door through which she had entered the barn. At the second stall in the row, he halted. “Here.”

  Alex came to a full stop, then moved forward slowly until she was even with Reede. She turned to face the stall. There was no hay in it, just the rubber-covered floor. The gate had been removed because no horse was occupying the stall. It looked innocent, almost sterile.

  “There hasn’t been a horse boarded in this stall since it happened.” Scornfully, he added, “Angus has a sentimental streak.”

  Alex tried to envision a bloody corpse lying in the stall, but couldn’t. She raised inquiring eyes to Reede.

  The skin seemed more tautly stretched across his cheekbones, and the vertical lines that framed his mouth appeared more pronounced than they had a few moments ago, when he had been angry. A visit to the scene of the crime wasn’t as easy for him as he wanted to pretend.

  “Tell me about it. Please.”

  He hesitated, then said, “She was lying diagonally, her head in that corner, her feet about here.” He touched a spot with the toe of his boot. “She was covered with blood. It was in her hair, on her clothes, everywhere.” Alex had heard jaded homicide detectives discussing gory murder sites with more emotion. Reede’s voice was hollow and monotonal, but his features were stark with pain. “Her eyes were still open.”

  “What time was that?” she asked huskily.

  “When I found her?” She nodded, finding it difficult to speak. “Dawn. Around six-thirty.”