by Janet Dailey
Lauren exhaled and surrendered, knowing that storming off would only make things worse. She’d been four years old when her mother had left Garn Prescott and moved back to Maryland to be near her family. In the years that followed, Fiona Wentworth Prescott, blessed with stunning beauty and family money, had flitted from party to party and from lover to lover. But she’d always been there for her daughter. Lauren had never wanted for affection or any material thing that caught her fancy.
Fiona’s death in a car crash when Lauren was fifteen had been the most shattering event of her youth. Her cold, practical grandparents had finished raising her, while the father she barely remembered had remained a stranger.
In most ways, Garn Prescott was still a stranger.
“What are you looking at?” he asked her, switching to a less volatile subject.
“That photograph above the sideboard. I’ve never paid attention to it before. When was it taken?” Lauren was making small talk now, but the picture, mounted in a rustic knotted pine frame, was intriguing. The faces and figures were slightly blurred, as if the image had been blown up from a smaller photo. It showed a summer gathering—a party or picnic—on the front steps of the ranch house.
Rising with her coffee, Lauren moved in for a closer look. One figure was unmistakable. Standing in the center of the photo, dressed in hunting clothes and holding a glass in one hand, was a smiling Ronald Reagan.
“He was still president then,” her father said. “Some party bigwigs invited him to come bird hunting, and my dad volunteered to host a picnic here afterward. See, that’s me standing next to the great man. I was still a pup, not even married yet, but that was the day I decided I wanted to go into politics. That’s why I hung the picture, to remind me.”
Lauren studied the photo. Her father would have been about twenty. She recognized the wavy blond hair and slightly receding chin. His parents, both of them gone now, were standing on the other side of the president—Ferguson Prescott, short and thickset, with a bristling mustache and a gaze fierce enough to cut steel; his pale wife, Edith, looking drained as always. Ferg had made her pregnant five times. Only Garn had survived.
There were other people in the photo—neighbors, party dignitaries, and Secret Service agents skulking in the background. At the edge of the picture, a tall, slender young woman in an apron held a tray of cocktail glasses. It appeared she’d meant to step back out of camera range but hadn’t moved far enough.
“Who’s that woman?” Lauren asked.
“The dark one? Nobody. Just the maid.”
“She’s beautiful. Look at those dark eyes, and those high cheekbones. She could have been a model. What ever happened to her?”
Prescott shrugged. “Who knows? After this picture was taken, I went away to school. When I came home for my mother’s funeral, she was here, but the next time I came back she was gone. I never asked about her. Why should I?” Prescott slathered butter on another slice of toast. “That fund-raiser tomorrow night—is it negotiable?”
“What do you mean, negotiable?” She turned back toward him, setting her coffee cup on the table.
“I don’t have the time or energy to spend the whole summer fighting with you, Lauren. So I’m prepared to bargain. Tell me something you want, within reason of course. Go to the fund-raiser with me, and it’s yours.”
Lauren took a moment to think. Much as she disliked giving in, her father’s offer made sense. The constant friction was wearing them both down. Why not go to the fund-raiser if it meant getting something she wanted?
But what did she want? The idea—so bold that it kicked her pulse into high gear—sprang out of nowhere.
“Only this one fund-raiser, right?”
“For now,” he said. “So what do you want in exchange?”
A thoughtful smile tugged at her mouth. “I haven’t ridden since high school,” she said. “I want to take it up again. And I want my pick of any horse on the ranch.”
Garn Prescott remained at the table after Lauren left, sipping his coffee and sopping up his eggs with his bread, the way he’d liked to do as a boy. He reached for the carafe to refill his empty coffee cup, then changed his mind and pulled a thin silver flask out of his hip pocket. He was sipping the bourbon he’d poured when his cell phone rang. The name on the display was that of Ted Abernathy, his campaign manager.
“Howdy, Ted.” His voice took on the folksy tone he used with his constituents. “Yup, I’m good to go for the fund-raiser. Even bringin’ my pretty daughter along to sweeten up the contributors. Are we set with the barbecue?” He paused as the voice crackled on the other end of the call. “What? They want payment in advance? The hell you say!”
Prescott’s fingers snapped the handle on his late second wife’s Limoges cup, spilling a trickle of bourbon on the table. He’d planned to reimburse the caterer out of funds raised at the event. To pay in advance would drain his war chest down to pocket change at a time when he needed every penny. Hoyt Axelrod’s arrest had taken care of his most worrisome opponent, but other candidates were crawling into the open like rats out of a haystack—and one of them was even a damned war hero. Prescott was fighting for his political life. And the one weapon he desperately needed—cash—had become as scarce as rain in this drought-ravaged summer. Once he got the nomination, the party machine would kick in. But until then—with the nomination in peril, the conservatives deserting him and the primary less than two months away—he was on his own.
All the more reason word mustn’t get out that his campaign was hard up for money.
“Pay the bastards, Ted,” he sighed. “If there’s not enough in the account, let me know and I’ll dig into my own pocket. Let’s hope we can make it up at the fund-raiser.”
“Will do.” Abernathy’s voice came through as the static cleared. “Did you hear that Hoyt Axelrod died in his cell?”
“What? Hell, no!”
“It’s been on the news all morning. Since he was set to run against you, making a statement would get you some press. I can write it up for you—good lawman gone bad, the final tragedy, whatever.”
“Fine. E-mail it to me and set things up with the TV station—maybe that hot little blonde, Mindi Thacker, could do an interview. At least she’s good-looking.” Prescott hung up the phone and poured himself another three fingers of bourbon. The way the day was starting out, he was going to need it.
Sky pulled the pickup into the hospital parking lot and switched off the ignition. As he turned sideways to swing down from the driver’s seat, he felt the press of the little pocketknife he’d slipped into his jeans. All the way to Lubbock, he’d been wrestling with his conscience. Sooner or later he’d have to show the knife to Beau and Will and tell them what it meant. But did he have to do it today, or could he leave it till he’d had the chance to check things out for himself?
Either way, Sky knew the conclusion would likely be the same. Jasper had been shot and left for dead by a member of his own family.
For years Sky had struggled to put his ugly childhood behind him. But there could be no denying who he was and where he’d come from—especially when pieces of his past kept resurfacing in the present.
After losing his mother, young Sky had gone to live with her brother’s family in Oklahoma. His aunt had descended from a long line of Comancheros—border bandits who’d dealt in guns, liquor, and slaves. Their lawless traits had filtered down through the generations. Smuggling, theft, forgery, grift, and abuse were a daily part of life in the Fletcher household. At fifteen, Sky had run away, his back scarred by blows from his uncle’s belt.
Two of the children, a girl and a boy, had been born after Sky’s arrival. Years later, hoping to save at least one of them, Sky had invited the boy to come to work on the Rimrock. But the intervention had come too late. Lute had proved as rotten as the others.
As for the girl . . .
Sky’s thoughts scattered as he stepped into the hospital waiting room. Bernice, looking like she’d aged ten years, w
as dozing in the rocker, her knitting in a tumble on the floor. The poor woman had been here ever since Jasper was brought in. She needed to go home and get some rest.
Scooping up the yarn and knitting needles, Sky laid them gently in her lap. She opened her pale eyes. “Oh, hullo,” she mumbled. “Is it daytime yet?”
“Yes, and I’m here to drive you home,” Sky said. “How’s Jasper?”
“All right, I think. He had some pain in the night. But they gave him some pills that seemed to help. When I looked in on him early this morning he was sleeping like a baby.”
“What do you say we go check on him? Then we can head home.” Sky helped her to stand. He could have gone to see Jasper alone, but he knew Bernice wouldn’t leave until she was sure her brother was all right.
She took his arm as they moved down the hall. They found Jasper sound asleep. His color was good, the oxygen mask replaced by a tube with a clip. Bernice tiptoed to his bedside and touched his hand, as if to reassure herself that her brother was still warm. Turning, she gave Sky a tired smile. “We can go now,” she said.
In the truck she was quiet. “He’ll be all right, Bernice,” Sky said. “Your brother is one tough old cowboy.”
“I know that. But we can’t all be tough forever.”
“How come Jasper never had a family? I’ve wondered, but I never asked. Figured that was his own business.”
“His sweetheart died—drowned in a flood three days before their wedding. Pretty little thing—Sally was her name. Jasper never got over her. But he has a family—Will and Beau, you and me, Erin, and everyone on the ranch. That’s his family.”
Ignoring the tightness in his throat, Sky swung the truck onto the main highway. “Did you know Will and Beau’s mother?” he asked.
“I never did. She died a few weeks before I came to cook and take care of the boys. You know how it happened, don’t you?”
Sky had heard the story—how Bull’s wife, Susan, had been driving home from town and blown a front tire on her car. Out of control, she’d crossed the median into the path of a speeding semi-truck and died in the crash.
“And Bull—I know he never remarried. Were there other women in his life?” Sky sensed he’d strayed onto dangerous ground.
“Not that I know of. When I met him he was still half-crazy with grief.” Bernice shook her head. “Jasper told me a little about Bull’s wife. She was from quality folk back East. They disinherited her when she married Bull, but the two of them were too much in love to care. I don’t think Bull ever got over losing her.”
“I see.” Sky sank into silence. He wouldn’t be asking Jasper any more questions about Bull and his mother. He already knew the answers. Marie Joslyn Fletcher had been there when Bull needed a woman. When he was done using her, he’d walked away without a thought.
Had his mother been in love with the grieving rancher? But why even wonder? The past was dead and couldn’t be changed. And Sky had more pressing concerns in the here and now. Like the knife he’d found and the story behind it—a story he was duty bound to share with Will and Beau. He would tell them tonight, before things got any more complicated than they already were.
Glancing over at Bernice, he saw that she’d fallen sound asleep.
Bernice had offered to cook supper that night, but Will and Beau insisted that she put her feet up and take it easy. They could drive into Blanco Springs for burgers and shakes.
“Come with us, Sky,” Will said as they walked out to the truck. “I’ll be dropping Beau at Natalie’s after we eat, and then picking up Erin at Tori’s place, so it won’t be a long night. But it’ll be a nice break.”
Sky could’ve warmed some leftover chili in his own small kitchen, but an evening in town did sound like a good idea. And it would give him a chance to tell the brothers about the pocketknife. They might wonder why he hadn’t told them earlier. For that there was just one honest excuse—he’d needed time to think.
Blanco Springs, the county seat, was a twenty-minute drive from the ranch. Its population of 3,082 souls, not counting those who lived on surrounding farms, was served by a gas station and garage; an old-fashioned movie theatre; a grocery store; the Burger Shack, which served sandwiches, shakes, and pizza; and the Blue Coyote, which welcomed cowboys, truckers, and anyone else old enough to drink. Will’s ex-wife, Tori, a lawyer, lived in Blanco. So did Beau’s fiancée, Natalie, who had her veterinary practice there.
Sky had thought about telling his story in the truck. But with the oversized tires rumbling over the rough asphalt and the radio blaring country music, serious conversation wasn’t worth the effort. He would have to wait for the restaurant.
Even for a weeknight, the Burger Shack was quiet. The three ordered cheeseburgers with fries and shakes at the counter and took a seat in one of the empty booths. In the interval while they waited for their meals, Sky drew the folded knife out of his pocket, laid it on the red Formica tabletop, and forced himself to speak.
“I’ve been waiting for the right time to show you this. It was lying on the ground, close to the place where Jasper was shot.”
Will picked up the knife, frowning as he examined it. “Looks like something a kid might have dropped. Are you thinking it has something to do with our shooter?”
“Turn it over,” Sky said. “Look at the initials on the back.”
Will stared at the crude carving on the handle. His dark eyebrows came together in a puzzled scowl. “I’ll be damned. Those are your initials.”
“I know. I carved them myself.”
“You’ve already lost me,” Beau said. “I hope you’re going to fill us in on the whole story.”
Sky took the knife from Will, balancing it on the flat of his palm the way he’d done years ago. Except for the fact that his hand was bigger now, it felt much the same.
“I was in third grade when I found this on the way home from school,” he said. “It was lying in the road, like somebody’d dropped it. Just a cheap little knife, but I’d never had anything much of my own. To a boy like me it was a treasure. I scratched those initials on it and kept it hidden so my older cousins wouldn’t take it.”
“Your older cousins? You mean Lute’s brothers?” Beau asked.
Sky nodded. “They were big enough and mean enough to take anything they wanted. Lute was just a toddler when I found the knife, and his sister, Marie, the only girl, named after my mother, wasn’t much older.”
Sky had always felt protective of the two young ones and tried to shield them from the brutality that was life in the Fletcher family. Not that it had done much good. Lute was dead now, and the last he’d heard of Marie, she’d run off with a boyfriend.
“I hung on to the knife till I was fifteen,” Sky said. “You already know some of this. My uncle had whipped me pretty bad, and I’d had enough. I packed my clothes and a little food in a pillowcase and waited till the middle of the night when the family was asleep. Then I snuck through the house to the back door. I thought I’d made a clean getaway, but I was wrong.”
The story was interrupted by the waiter with their orders. The cheeseburgers were hot and fresh, the men hungry after a long day of work. For the first few minutes they enjoyed filling their bellies in silence.
Finally Beau spoke up. “So tell us the rest.”
Sky downed the last of his chocolate shake. “I was about to unlock the kitchen door when I heard a noise. I turned around and there was little Marie in the old ripped T-shirt she wore for a nightgown. Tears were running down her cheeks. ‘Don’t go, Sky,’ she begged me.”
“Let me guess,” Will said. “You gave her the knife to keep her quiet.”
“And that’s the last you saw of the knife till you found it this morning,” Beau finished.
“You two really know how to ruin a good story,” Sky said. “She’d always wanted that knife. She promised to take care of it and not to tell anybody she’d seen me leaving.”
“So you’re thinking she could be the one who shot Jasper?” Wi
ll had never been one to beat around the bush.
“I don’t know.” Sky stared down at the knife in his open hand. “I saw boot tracks small enough to be a woman’s. But I can’t imagine Marie shooting an old man. Maybe somebody else had the knife. Maybe she wasn’t even there. I know I could be wrong, but . . .” His voice trailed off. He shook his head.
“You were wrong about Lute,” Beau reminded him.
“I know. This time I just want to be sure before I ruin somebody’s life.” Sky laid the knife on the table again. “When I found this I knew I’d have to tell you about it. But I’m hoping you’ll give me some time before you call in the law. I need to learn the truth, and I can best do that on my own.”
Will and Beau exchanged glances. Beau gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Since the law around here is Abner Sweeney, it’s an easy choice,” Will said. “But Jasper was almost killed by these people. Promise you’ll be careful and that you’ll keep us in the loop. If we cut you some slack, we’ll need to know what’s going on.”
“And promise you’ll ask for our help if you need it,” Beau added.
“You’ve got my word on it. Thanks for understanding.” Sky rose from his seat in the booth. “I’d like to wander over to the Blue Coyote, maybe see what I can find out about who’s new in town. Will, can you stop by and pick me up on your way back to the ranch?”
“Sure. But be careful. Some folks might not take too kindly to your asking questions.”
“I mostly just plan to keep my ears open. Call when you’re there, and I’ll meet you outside. That way you won’t have to leave Erin alone in the truck.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Will was protective of his daughter. Now that school was out, Erin was spending most of her vacation with him on the ranch.
After leaving his tip on the table, Sky walked out of the Burger Shack and into the summer dusk. Beau would be spending the night with Natalie, who’d drive him home in the morning. The two planned a fall wedding but had yet to figure out where they were going to live. Beau had his responsibilities on the ranch. Natalie had her clinic in town and didn’t want to give up her practice.
