by Janet Dailey
She and her father had never had much of a relationship. But maybe this crisis could be a turning point—a new beginning. If she stood by him against the world, maybe he would warm to her. Maybe he would look on her as a real daughter, not just a tool to be used in his political schemes. And when she moved out, as she still meant to, maybe it would at least be on friendly terms. She’d told herself she didn’t give a damn about Garn Prescott. It had taken this horrific event to make her realize how much she cared.
Sky had mentioned growing up fatherless. Lauren had pretty much done the same. But for everyone’s sake, she needed to mend things. If nothing else, she owed her future children their grandfather.
If only Sky would understand that she had to try.
Leaving a couple of bills on the table, Lauren picked up her purse and walked out to the car. The inside of the Cadillac was like an oven. Sweating, she cranked up the AC and pulled out of the parking lot. The dark-tinted windows of the car softened the glare of the sun on the parched landscape. Heat shimmered in waves above the road.
She touched the brake pedal as a lizard dashed across the highway ahead of her wheels. How could any living creature survive this heat, let alone set an unprotected foot on the melting black asphalt? At least the hospital would be cool.
Twenty minutes later she parked the car and walked into the hospital’s main lobby. “He’s in Room 233,” the receptionist told her. “The elevator’s just down that hallway. Push the button for the second floor. When you get out, just follow the signs.”
Alone in the elevator, Lauren mulled over what to say to her father. Nothing came to mind. She could only promise herself that whatever words she spoke would be gentle and forgiving.
She stepped out of the elevator and rounded a corner to a scene of controlled chaos. From far down the corridor a monitor shrieked its alarm. Nurses and doctors in scrubs were rushing to the sound. A garbled voice blasted over the intercom. Lauren caught the word stat. Some poor soul was in crisis. Here in the hospital, the only helpful thing she could do was stay out of the way and try not to look.
Walking down toward her father’s room, she checked the number posted next to each door. Lauren might as well have been invisible. She had just reached Room 233 when the door opened partway and the doctor she’d met yesterday stepped out into the hall. For an instant he looked surprised to see her. Then his features shifted into the impassive mask she’d seen the day before.
“I’m sorry, Miss Prescott,” he said. “Your father just suffered a massive heart attack. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save him. He’s gone.”
Sky lifted the saddle off the blue roan and patted her damp withers. A sharp little mare, she’d performed well on the morning’s cutting maneuvers with the paddock cows. By next week she’d be ready to join Quicksilver and several other colts up on the caprock, working the herd with the cowboys. Sky tried not to get attached to the young horses he trained. But that wasn’t easy. They were the closest thing he had to his own children, and he took a parent’s pride in everything they accomplished.
To date, the training had gone well enough. But Sky couldn’t help worrying. Will was counting on the sale of the colts to shore up Rimrock finances. But if the drought didn’t end soon, what rancher would have enough spare cash to pay what they were worth? Sky knew better than to voice his concerns to Will. The boss of the Rimrock had enough trouble on his plate.
Eyes shaded by the brim of his Stetson, he gazed west. The first clouds of the afternoon were drifting over the escarpment—tantalizing white streaks that raised hopes but brought no rain. Yesterday he’d seen traces of virga, the phantom moisture that formed high and evaporated before it reached the ground. Ghost rain, his grandfather had called it. Sky still missed the old man.
So far he’d had no chance to talk with Jasper. The retired foreman had ridden into town with Bernice that morning and wouldn’t be back till later in the day. Meanwhile, Sky had plenty of work to do.
He’d just turned the mare loose in the paddock and was splashing his face at the outside tap when his cell phone rang. Seeing Lauren’s number, he picked up. Last night had been good between them. The thought of hearing her voice triggered a riffle of anticipation.
“How’s it going?” he asked. “You were sleeping like an angel when I left. Did I wear you out?”
“Sky . . .” Her voice quivered and broke. “Oh, Sky!”
“What is it?”
He listened in shock while she told him about her father’s fatal heart attack. “It must’ve happened just as I was going up to his room,” she said. “If I hadn’t stopped for breakfast, I might have been there to say good-bye—or even to call for help in time to save him. . . .”
She trailed off. Sky wondered if she was crying. “I’ll be right there,” he said. “Wait for me.”
“No, don’t come.” She sounded stronger now. “There’s nothing you can do here, and I can’t leave yet. There’s the paperwork, the insurance, the funeral home, and maybe even the police. Nobody was prepared for this to happen.”
“Lauren, I want to be there for you.”
“No.” Her tone was adamant. “You’d just have to wait around. As long as I’m busy, I’ll be all right. But if you want, you can meet me at the house when I get home. Walking in the door, knowing he’s gone, that’ll be when it all comes crashing in. That’s when I’ll need you.”
“I’ll be there. Just tell me when.”
“I’ll have to let you know. I could be tied up for hours. Dad’s lawyer is here in Lubbock. I called, and he wants to meet with me while I’m here. I need to coordinate the damage control with his campaign staff and do something about planning the funeral.” Sky could hear the strain in her voice. Lauren was walking the ragged edge, but she was holding on. “I’ll call you when I’m on my way.” She spoke above voices in the background. “Got to go,” she said, and ended the call.
Dazed by the news, Sky slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. He should have known Lauren wouldn’t fall apart. She was a strong woman. He’d seen that yesterday. But the urge to hold her in his arms, console and protect her, was still there. He would respect her wish that he stay away, but right now he wanted nothing more than to be at her side.
As for the ripple effect of Garn Prescott’s death . . . It would be as if an earthquake had struck.
On the heels of the drug money scandal, the news would go national, of course. With luck, Prescott’s attempted suicide could be kept out of the press. A heart attack was, at least, a respectable way to go.
The election, already in a tailspin, would become even more frenetic. Until the money scandal broke, Garn Prescott had been the front-runner. Now it was anybody’s race; and there’d also be a scramble for the temporary appointment to his seat in Congress.
Other issues hit closer to home. As far as Sky knew, Lauren was Prescott’s sole heir. The congressman was far from rich. The Prescott Ranch had been drowning in debt when he’d sold out to the syndicate. But he owned—or had owned—the house and his father’s collection of vintage cars and had hopefully left behind some good government life insurance.
Lauren would do fine. So why should she settle for a man with a hundred acres and a little money in the bank?
This was no time for questions, Sky told himself. He loved Lauren, and whatever happened, he would be there for her. But loving wasn’t the same as having. The sooner he got that reality through his head, the better.
Looking toward the house, he saw Will’s red truck pull up to the porch. Will would want to hear about Prescott’s death. And knowing Will, his first thought would be for the canyon parcel he’d tried so many times to get back from the Prescotts. Now that Garn was gone, maybe Will could get Lauren to sell it to him.
Preparing to deliver the news, Sky locked the paddock gate and strode across the yard toward the house.
Climbing into the Cadillac, Lauren took a moment to close her eyes and rest her forehead against the top of the stee
ring wheel. She’d been running on adrenaline all afternoon. Now that she was alone and finally about to head home, she was exhausted.
Shouldn’t she be feeling something? This wasn’t her first loss. She’d experienced her mother’s death and then Mike’s with an outpouring of grief and tears that went on and on. But now all she felt was . . . drained.
Today her first priority had been making sure the gunshot wound wasn’t leaked to the press. Her father’s longtime attorney, whom she’d met at the Lubbock fund-raiser, had come to the hospital to ensure the staff’s discretion and the privacy of the medical record. He’d also put her in touch with a funeral director, a personal friend of his, who knew how to handle such delicate matters. They’d spent more than an hour discussing arrangements for the burial. The congressman would be interred next week with the dignity befitting his station and his long service to his country.
Since the death involved a gunshot wound, it had to be reported to the police. Two detectives had come to the hospital, interviewed Lauren and the doctor, then tested Lauren’s hands, as well as her father’s, for gunpowder residue. Satisfied there was no foul play, they’d left without demanding an autopsy. Thank heaven for that, at least.
Lauren had gone to his campaign headquarters in person to give the news to his staff, mostly volunteers. Still reeling from the funding scandal, they’d taken the news hard. To show her appreciation for their work, she’d taken them to dinner at a nice steakhouse. She’d even managed to choke down a few bites of her prime rib and drink a few sips of wine.
Now the sun had gone down and Lauren had nothing left of herself to give. In the morning she’d write up a statement for release to the press. But right now all she wanted was to go home and lose herself in Sky’s arms.
Finding her cell phone in her purse, she called his number to let him know she was leaving. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message.
“Sky, I’m on my way. I should be home by nine. I’m going to need you.”
Putting the phone away, she switched on the headlights and pulled the car onto the road.
The hulking semitruck, with the Haskell Trucking logo on the trailer, had parked outside the diner with a view of the highway. At the wheel, Marie inhaled the last of her cigarette and tossed the butt out the window. Her tired eyes followed the blinking red dot on the screen of the electronic tracker Stella had lent her. She’d been waiting hours for Garn Prescott to leave Lubbock and hit the highway. Now, at last, the big white Caddy was on the move.
Marie had nothing against Garn Prescott—didn’t even know the man. But if killing him would get her in tight with Stella, she was up for it. If she could shoot her own brother in the back, she shouldn’t have any trouble ramming a stranger’s car.
She knew, of course, why Stella wanted Prescott dead. In any investigation of the funding scandal, the man would sell her down the river to save his own skin. Just like Lute, Prescott knew too much.
And Marie knew something else. This assignment was a test. Carry it out and she’d become Stella’s business associate, on her way to taking over when the time came. Fail and she could end up like her brothers.
The signal was in close range now. Looking north up the long, straight road, Marie could see the approaching headlights. If it was Prescott’s Cadillac, she was in business.
Traffic was light at this hour. All she needed to do was get behind Prescott’s car, follow along until no one else was in sight, and then make her move.
The headlights came close, blinding her for an instant before the car sped past. It was the Cadillac all right. Time to get moving.
Gearing down and switching her headlights on low beam, Marie pulled the truck onto the road and hit the gas.
CHAPTER 16
Lauren glanced at the headlights in the rearview mirror. The big semi had been on her tail since she’d driven by the diner. On this straight road, with little night traffic, there’d been plenty of chances for the truck to pull around her, but the driver hadn’t tried to pass.
Were her strained nerves overreacting, or was the situation getting a little creepy?
Testing the driver’s intent, she moved to the right and watched the speedometer needle ease down to forty-five. The truck slowed down, too, staying back, making no effort to pass her. A pickup coming from behind honked as it swerved into the left lane, roared around both vehicles, and streaked into the night.
Whatever game the semi driver was playing, Lauren wanted no part of it. Her boot came down on the gas pedal. The Cadillac shot ahead, widening the distance between them.
By the time she dared take a full breath, she’d left the massive truck behind. She could no longer see headlights in the mirror. Maybe she’d imagined the whole scenario—or maybe she’d seen too many spy movies.
Feeling a slight play in the steering wheel, she eased off the gas. The Cadillac had plenty of power, but it was almost forty years old. There was no telling how long it would hold up at high speed before something broke or came loose. Better safe than sorry.
Once more she glanced in the rearview mirror. Still no sign of headlights. Lauren was beginning to feel foolish. Never mind. She’d be home in another twenty minutes. With luck, Sky would be waiting. She could fall into his arms and put this hellish day out of her mind while . . .
The roar of a huge diesel engine exploded in her ears. From just behind her rear windshield, high-beam truck lights flashed on, flooding the interior of the car, their reflection blinding her eyes. There was no time to think, no time for anything but a jolt of stark terror.
She felt the shock of first impact, heard the shattering crash. The steel chassis of the Cadillac crunched and folded around her. Shards of glass peppered her skin like buckshot. Then she was pitching, rolling sideways, the seat belt digging into her body as she jerked back and forth like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth.
By the time the car came to a shuddering stop in the deep roadside barrow pit, Lauren felt nothing at all.
Marie climbed down from the truck, a flashlight in one hand and a heavy wrench, as long as her forearm, in the other. The truck, protected by a thick steel grate on the front, appeared to have suffered little damage. But right now that wasn’t her concern.
Garn Prescott had probably died in the crash. But it was part of her job to make sure. If he was still alive she would have to finish him off with the wrench.
She took a moment to check for oncoming traffic. Satisfied that no one was coming, she plunged down the steep bank.
The Cadillac lay upside down on the sand at the bottom of the slope. Its wheels were still spinning. There was less damage than she’d expected, given how hard she’d hit it. But those old ’70s cars were built like Sherman tanks. The back was crumpled in like an accordion, the top crushed, the windows broken. With no air bags to protect him, Prescott would be dead, she hoped. Marie wasn’t keen on having to bash his head with the wrench.
The top of the car was stoved in. To look inside through the shattered window, she’d have to get down low. Crouching in the sand, she directed the flashlight beam into the car. On the driver’s side, a motionless figure hung from the seat belt. Marie moved in closer.
Shit! It wasn’t Prescott.
The driver—unconscious or dead—was a slender woman with long, auburn hair that hung over her face. There was nobody else in the car.
Was she alive? Blood dripped from the woman’s dangling hair, making dark splotches on the car’s headliner. If she wasn’t already dead, she was probably dying.
Trying to save her was out of the question. And hitting her with the wrench would involve crawling inside the car to reach her, maybe getting cut on glass or jagged metal. There was nothing to do but get out of here, the faster, the better, before somebody came along.
The faint smell of gasoline reached her nostrils. For a few seconds Marie weighed the wisdom of setting the car on fire. There was no way forensics would mistake the woman’s burned body for Garn Prescott’s. But a fire would at least dest
roy any evidence and make sure the driver didn’t survive to tell the police about the truck.
She’d reached for her cigarette lighter and was tugging it out of her jeans pocket when she spotted a set of oncoming headlights in the distance, coming closer, moving fast. For all she knew, it could be the Highway Patrol. A fire would attract attention and delay her escape. Better to just hotfoot it up to the truck and hit the road.
As she was mounting the slope, a small object dropped into the dry grass. Damn! That would be her cigarette lighter. No time to look for it now. She could buy another one in Blanco. Right now what she needed was to get out of here.
Moments later she was in the driver’s seat barreling back to Blanco Springs. She’d done everything right, she told herself, even turning off the truck’s headlights so she could sneak up behind the Cadillac for the kill. With those dark-tinted windows, there was no way she could have seen who was driving Garn Prescott’s car.
None of this mess was her fault.
All the same, Stella was going to be madder than hell.
Waiting in his truck behind the Prescott house, Sky redialed Lauren’s number. By the time the ring switched over to her voice mail message, his gut was in a knot. She should have made it home long before this. Something had to be wrong.
He’d been busy with the horses till after sundown. Somehow he’d missed her phone call. But he’d gotten her message in plenty of time to drive to her house. Now it was after ten. Lauren was more than an hour overdue, and she wasn’t answering her phone.
Her black Corvette was parked where he’d left it the night before. But her father’s Cadillac was missing. It made sense that she’d take the bigger car—it was safer and more comfortable for the hour-long drive to the hospital. Still, anything could have happened to her. A dozen grim possibilities clicked through his mind.
