by Cait London
Shelly came to stand behind him. “You don’t want to admit how good you are. You’re afraid to believe in yourself. Believe in yourself, Roman. You’re wonderful and kind…with the stuff heroes are made of,” she added softly.
“Some hero,” he muttered, more afraid of Shelly and his feelings.
She leaned against his back, her hands stroking his arms. “Jace came to see me today and apologized for acting smart. He said you’d made a difference in his life, because you’d managed to pull yourself out of nowhere and touch people’s lives, like his. You’ve influenced him and his gang and they’re assessing the rest of their lives. He said you’re his hero, someone with enough—ah, male organs—to drop the macho act and tell it how it is, the problems in your life that you had to stand up to—like not taking drugs any longer than you had to for your knee. Dani and Jace are through, but he told me that he hopes he can find a girl to cherish, the way you said men should think of women—not to use them.”
“They’re good kids, just a little mixed up.” Roman liked working with the young crowd, listening to their problems and trying to help. He’d held more than one boy as he cried.
“Not everyone thinks so. You saw something in them that no one else could. You gave them something, someone to believe in them. That’s important. You’re afraid to admit how wonderful you are, but I’m not. You’re upstanding and brave and true and unselfish, and you have a good heart. You’re a hero, Roman, like it or not.”
That evening Mitchell stood beneath Uma’s office window. In stained work clothes, he looked big and tough and unmovable. She sensed that he’d stand there, watching her house until—
She glanced at the woman in the shadows of the room, a woman familiar with her mother.
A friend in Oklahoma City had collected Grace Warren from the airport and delivered her to Uma’s house. With good bones beneath good skin, Grace was still a slender, stylish woman with streaks of gray sweeping back from her temples to blend into her raven chignon. The circles beneath her brown eyes said she probably hadn’t slept, but her sky blue traveling suit was immaculate and stylish, reflecting her interest in clothing. Now retired, Grace had sold her small dress shop, the finances invested, providing her with a good income.
In Madrid on Uma’s invitation, Grace feared her sons’ reactions to her. Very much a lady, Grace sipped her tea as Uma spoke to her father on the telephone.
When the call ended, her father’s concern echoed harshly in the soft room. His voice had been raised and quivered with outrage. “You what? You think you love that Warren thug? He’s probably tied up with a crime syndicate. He’s no good, and neither is his brother. I’m coming home to settle this—”
“This isn’t between you and me. This is between me and Mitchell.”
It had taken her a good half hour to calm Clarence while Grace waited quietly. Uma chose to omit telling her father about the dangerous situation in Madrid. He would only complicate matters by coming home now.
“I’ll be fine, Dad,” she’d said finally, and hoped it was true.
She glanced at the duct tape covering the bullethole in her window and shivered. Mitchell would stand there, in open sight of a murderer, until he got what he wanted—or until he died. If his suspicions were right—that the murderer did his dirty work at night—then…
If Mitchell just stood there and let himself be killed out of stubbornness, she’d kill him herself. Her fingers clenched into fists and she studied them. Until he’d come to town, she’d managed to survive without a storm of unsettling emotions—except for that infamous incident with Billy at the yard sale.
Mitchell touched her at a primitive, simmering, boiling, snapping point that no other person had drawn from her. She mentally ran through Charis’s recommended slow count for controlling her emotions and pushed open the window.
Mitchell, in a stormy snit, was not exactly perfect to present to his mother.
“Mitchell, I’m just fine,” she called down, and watched his expression harden.
“Get the hell away from that window,” he returned fiercely. “You make a perfect target.”
The order snapped her head back and strained her already ragged nerves. She preferred logical discussions, and this man was serving her curt one-way arguments. Her only option was to reply tit-for-tat. “Well, so do you.”
His head tilted arrogantly and he served her another volley. “Then whatever happens to me will be your fault, won’t it?”
Uma decided if he was already in a bad mood, she might as well give him one more problem. She held out her hand to Grace, who shook her head. “He sounds just like Fred. Demanding when he could be asking.”
“Your son isn’t perfect,” Uma said. “But he has his good moments. This isn’t one of them. Come stand by me; I’m not backing down from this. Mitchell and Roman should know the whole story of what happened to your marriage. They need to understand you and Fred.”
“I don’t know that I understand.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
Grace’s expression was fierce, tears shimmering in her light brown eyes. “I adored Fred from the moment I saw him breaking those horses almost forty years ago. I’ve never loved anyone else.”
I’ve never loved anyone else, Fred had said, when he’d talked to Uma’s mother all those years ago. Uma glanced down at Mitchell, just as stubborn as his father, and prayed that she was making the right choice in trying to bridge the years of bitterness. It was in her nature to heal and help, and if he couldn’t accept that, they were apt to find the same end as Grace and Fred.
Uma ached for all the lives that had been torn apart. “Then it’s time all this was straightened out. And we all need to work together to help stop whoever caused Lauren to be killed. What you might know could be helpful in finding him. Grace, I’m not backing down because Mitchell is down there yelling loud enough to wake the dead. Dani deserves to know you. Come stand by me.”
Grace moved slowly, gracefully, and Uma took her hand, framing them both in the window for Mitchell’s view. His expression changed from stunned to bitterness, and whatever he was saying, low and fierce, wasn’t sweet.
“Let me speak to him privately, please, Grace. One who cannot be changed must be moved,” she muttered. She hurried downstairs and out onto the sidewalk to face Mitchell. His expression wasn’t happy.
“What the hell have you done now?” he demanded instantly, his face hard in the dappled evening shadows. His eyes slashed at her, and the vein in his throat throbbed beneath tanned skin.
So much for intelligent conversation, Uma thought. “I’ve invited your mother back to Madrid. What she knows about old Madrid might be a help, and she has a perfect right to get to know her granddaughter.”
“Of all the harebrained—” His expression was taut, those golden eyes pinning her, his body taut as he held Rosy’s leash. His gaze ripped down Uma’s loose cotton dress and back up to the twin braids running over her shoulders and breasts. Uma felt as if he’d reached inside and tugged her toward him; she felt the earth shake beneath her feet, and braced herself against that sensual tug. Yet he hadn’t moved.
Instead, he issued a no-quarters-asked statement. “It’s getting dark. Are you staying at my house tonight?”
She wasn’t letting him push her now. “I have a guest. I can’t very well leave your mother.”
“You think that you can make everything just peachy, don’t you? How do you justify her running out on us?”
“Grace did not run out on you, or Roman, or Fred. His pride forced her out. But you don’t want to know the real truth, do you? You’d prefer to cling to your bitterness, digging in so deeply that you won’t listen to the possibility that as a boy, you got the wrong impression and as a man, held it tight inside you, feeding on it.”
“Why are you mixing in this? Don’t you have enough to do running everyone else’s lives?” Mitchell glared at Grace who had come to take Uma’s hand. Then he turned and stiffly walked away, leaving
the two women on the sidewalk.
“He looks so much like Fred,” Grace said unevenly, her hand trembling in Uma’s. The older woman laughed unevenly. “Acts like him, too. You love him, don’t you?”
“I think I do. But at times like this, I could just—”
“I know. I’ll be fine here, dear, if you want to go to him. I don’t want to cause problems between you…. He’s so much like Fred,” Grace repeated, as tears came into her eyes.
Uma knew that Grace was close to breaking down. Uma placed her arm around the older woman. “Let’s go inside. Mitchell will listen to reason. He’s a good man. He just needs time to think.”
Later, the sharp rap on the door and the broad-shouldered silhouette blocking the door window said that Mitchell had already done his thinking. Uma braced herself and smoothed her hair before opening the door.
“Oh, hello, Mitchell.” She tried to sound casual, but her senses were taut and fearing that she had ruined their tenuous relationship.
“I’ll be outside tonight, watching the house.” He glared at her and handed her Rosy’s leash. The pig trotted into the house, her snout sniffing for the remembered scents of fruitcake.
Shelly’s pickup soared down the street and Dani burst from it the moment it stopped in front of Uma’s house. “Hi, Unc,” she said, shouldering past him as he held the door.
“Come in, Dani,” Uma said. “Your grandmother has been waiting to meet you.”
Shelly glanced up at Mitchell as she passed into the house. “Your brother isn’t happy about this. But Dani has a right to meet her grandmother.”
Roman’s motorcycle purred to a stop behind Shelly’s pickup. “Shelly, you come out here, right now,” he yelled.
“Just a peaceful little family get-together. You couldn’t wait to call Dani, could you, Uma?” Mitchell muttered, before closing the door between the women and the brothers.
Their deep voices sounded on the porch; Uma answered the sharp rap on the door to find Roman glaring down at her, Mitchell just behind him. “Yes? May I help you?”
May I knock your heads together to get you to see past your noses?
“I’d like to talk with Shelly, please,” Roman said stiffly.
Inside the house, Shelly shook her head no, and Uma said, “I believe she’s busy at the moment. She and Dani, myself, and your mother are going into the kitchen now to fix dinner. You’re invited—if you behave yourself.”
“Mitchell, she’s your woman. She’s meddling in things that don’t concern her. Do something,” Roman ordered as Shelly came to stand beside Uma.
Dani stood on her other side. “I am going to talk with my grandmother,” she said with a fierceness matching Roman’s.
“Everyone just wait a minute. Before this goes any further, I want to make one thing clear—” Uma held her breath and stepped out onto the porch. Mitchell’s arrogant stance, his head tilted slightly, his arms crossed and his legs braced apart said he wasn’t budging. “I know that the situation is dangerous—”
“Damned dangerous and you have to bring her here.”
“Are you going to kiss me goodnight? Or are you coming in?”
“I’m not coming in.”
“Then take this with you, hard head.” Uma stood on tiptoe and reached her arms around his shoulders, kissing those firm lips.
Mitchell reacted instantly, letting go of the breath he’d been holding, and wrapping his arms around her tightly. His kiss tasted of hunger and frustration, diving deeply, sensuously, melding her to him until she could feel the rapid beat of his heart. Uma smoothed his hair and held him fiercely. Just as she sensed he was going to move off the porch with her, she eased away and Mitchell’s expression closed. “War, is it?”
“Your father’s pride tore them apart, Mitchell. Don’t let that happen to us,” she cautioned softly.
“You weren’t there.”
“My mother was.”
“She heard Grace’s side, not his.”
Uma reached to caress Mitchell’s cheek and despite his anger, he brushed a rough kiss into her palm. “Fred told my mother, too. I was there and too young to understand, but I saw him cry. He was heartbroken. It’s time you told Roman what he said as he died. Grace has a right to hear it, too. I know what it was, because you were on painkillers and still delirious that night the house burned. You told me he said he loved her and that it was his fault.”
Mitchell inhaled sharply and his eyes glittered down at her. Then he turned stiffly and walked off the porch, Roman staring after him. “My father said that?” he asked brusquely, raggedly.
“Yes. Give her a chance, Roman. For Dani’s sake, and for your own.” But Roman was already moving after Mitchell.
Clyde eased into position, drawing back the string of the powerful compound bow. He wasn’t using practice arrows this time, rather the hunting arrowheads, meant to kill. In the trees bordering Uma’s backyard, he was well hidden, yet he could see Mitchell Warren outlined in the streetlight sliding between the houses.
A cold trickle rose up Clyde’s nape and he pivoted toward Lauren’s old house. The house gave him the willies and he didn’t know why. Lauren was dead, but some part of her was still lurking there, mocking him. He could even smell her lemon cookies…as if she had just baked them. He wasn’t going in the house again—ever.
Clearly Mitchell and Roman were guarding the Lawrence house and the women in it. Dressed in black, the men weren’t easy to see in the shadows. When the back door creaked and Uma stepped out into the night, dressed in a large white T-shirt that came to her mid-thighs, Clyde hissed and eased the bowstring. Instantly, both men crouched and moved to trap her between them, then Roman nodded, moved away.
Mitchell picked up Uma in his arms and hurried into his house.
Clyde considered burning Shelly’s house, but then he didn’t want all the players in one place as they were tonight. It was easier to pick them off when they were separated; all he had to do was to wait. He’d waited for years to make them all pay…
He breathed deeply, inhaling the scents of the summer roses on the trellis near his head, and silently mouthed his promise, his litany: “Before the last rose petal falls this year, those women will be dead.”
He ripped a fragrant blossom from its thorny mooring and let the blood-red petals drift slowly to the earth. He ground the fragrant petals into the grass with his well-polished shoes; he’d always hated roses. The women chatted endlessly about tea, damask and old European roses, and whatever other boring nonsense interested them.
Uma had interfered in his life too many times. When she was dead, everything would fall into place…first, Shelly, and then dim-witted Pearl…
Clyde sucked in the night air as it chilled suddenly, bringing the scent of—of Lauren? The dead woman?
He shook his head, clearing it. The fragrances on a hot August night weren’t that of a woman. The air smelled like Lauren’s lemon cookies. He eyed Lauren’s house and fought the fear that she might be in the night, waiting for him.
Then from the shadows he saw the cat’s eyes, and moonlight caught the glow of white fangs as it hissed at him, its back arched. He thought he heard his real name whispered, the rose leaves brushing against each other as he moved, the thorns dragging at his jacket and slacks, threatening to dislodge his hat, trying to reveal who he really was…
He gave way to the prowling fear that Lauren wanted revenge. The sense that she waited for him pounded through him, his heart racing.
With a soft cry, Clyde hurried into the safety of the night and his secret place.
FIFTEEN
After his rousing argument with Roman, battles with Uma, and the discovery that she had brought his mother to Madrid, Mitchell wanted some very private time with the woman in his life.
She stood in the center of his kitchen, her hands on her hips her shirt stretched over those perfect breasts, her nipples etching dark peaks in the material. Her eyes narrowed up at him. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Let’s get this straight. Parts of my life are out of bounds. You stepped over the line. I’m expecting you to correct your mistake.”
“You’re talking in memos again. You’re not running a business empire here, Mitchell. I’m not an employee or an underling to be dictated to.”
“I thought we had an agreement, a good one. An arrangement that suited us both.” She was his, and she knew it; that was a fact. She’d given him everything in lovemaking, with nothing held back, and they were one. Why did women have to complicate life? Dealing with them certainly wasn’t easy, but then, he’d never wanted to, had he?
“It may have suited you.”
“Let’s hear it. Whatever she’s told you, I want to hear.” Mitchell smiled tightly. He admired Uma; how she wouldn’t back down. He breathed uneasily. A standoff with his mother was not what he wanted.
“She loved your father. He loved her, but he couldn’t stop working that land, and it ruined their lives. They could have made it—just living there, and her working. But he felt he had to do as his father had done and his father before him—raise and break horses, selling them. He couldn’t afford to do that, not with the expenses of food and grain and feed.”
Uma shook her head. “She thought he’d come after her when he’d had time to think about what turned out to be their final argument, when he saw the ledgers and realized the truth, the folly of trying to do as his family had done before him. But he couldn’t bend enough. Instead, he held his bitterness and frustration inside, and it devoured him. I don’t want that to happen to you or to Roman. You’re more like your father than you know. He got entrenched in that bitterness, and it took him to drink and trouble. And she wrote you, trying to explain. You look stunned. You didn’t know that, did you? That she sent money for you and Roman? That she wrote and tried to call?”
Mitchell tried to rally his argument against his mother. “Dad promised his father the land would always be in the family. She knew that when she married him.”
