Lost in Cottonwood Canyon & How to Train a Cowboy--Lost in Cottonwood Canyon

by RaeAnne Thayne

  Oh, how she hated this. She hid her sisterly concern and brought out that smile she had practiced in her car earlier, though it felt cheesier than usual.

  “I ran into Wyatt McKinnon out in the visitor waiting room. How often is he coming to talk with you?”

  His sigh came over the phone loud and clear. “Don’t start in on this again, Tay.”

  “What? I didn’t say anything.”

  “No, but you have that what the hell are you thinking? look on your face.”

  “You’re imagining things. Must be the lighting in here.”

  “Lighting my ass. I know what you think about McKinnon.”

  Don’t be so sure, she wanted to say but held her tongue.

  Hunter went on. “He told me you went to see him last week. He said you asked him not to write the story.”

  Okay, it had been a lousy idea. She had known it even before she went to the bookstore, but she had never been very good at inaction. When something was wrong in her world, she tried to take steps to fix it.

  “It didn’t do much good, did it? He’s still here today.”

  “You think I’m crazy to talk to him, don’t you.”

  She thought of all her many objections to Wyatt writing a book about the case. Her biggest fear was that it would make life even harder for Hunter here behind bars.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” she answered. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Somebody’s going to write the story. We both know it’s only a matter of time. I’m surprised nobody has done it yet. If not McKinnon, it will be someone else, and frankly, I prefer him to some of the bottom-feeders who’ve tried to get interviews with me. McKinnon talked to me a few times about other cases when I was on the job and actually quoted me correctly. From what I’ve seen of his work, I figure he’ll at least try to be fair. He cared enough to attend the trial, not just rely on court transcripts.”

  “That’s true. He was there every day. I wonder why he’s just now writing the story.”

  “A few reasons, I suppose. I only decided to talk to him a few months ago and I do know he had to finish another project before he could write this one.” He paused. “Today he told me he would like to talk to you. I’m sure he wants to know what it was like growing up with a vicious killer.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she shot back quickly.

  Hunter’s short laugh echoed in the phone. That was why she continued these torturous visits. If she could make him laugh even once, everything was worth it.

  “Will you talk to him?”

  She sighed. “I already planned to. He’s waiting for me to finish up my visit.”

  “Really?”

  “Kate seems to think convincing Wyatt McKinnon you’re innocent might help your appeal. I would like to show him all the evidence that was thrown out at trial that proves you could never have killed anyone.”

  He shook his head in resignation, but there was a warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in a long while.

  “You never did know when to give up the fight, did you. Remember when you brought home that stray mutt and the Judge said under no conditions would that mangy thing ever be allowed in our house? You hid him at Suzie Walker’s house down the street and spent weeks wearing the Judge down.”

  She smiled at the memory. “I think what finally did the trick was the ten-page research paper I did—complete with footnotes and annotations—outlining how child development experts believe pets can be beneficial to young minds.”

  “That’s funny. I thought it was the amateur ad campaign you shot of you taking care of Rascal down at Suzy Walker’s—feeding him, walking him, teaching him tricks.”

  “I miss that dog. You know, he would have died before admitting it but I think the Judge warmed up to Rascal eventually. After you moved out, I even caught him petting him a few times.”

  Hunter unbent enough to smile—or as close as he came to a smile these days anyway. Too quickly, though, he sobered. “You’re not going to win this one, Tay. You need to face facts here. God knows, I have. Life is a hell of a lot easier to deal with after you stop holding on to foolish hope.”

  “Without hope, what else do you have?”

  He didn’t answer, but she saw the truth in the bleakness of his eyes. Nothing. He had nothing. She wouldn’t have thought it possible but her heart cracked apart a little more.

  Before she could respond, the guard walked up behind Hunter. “Time’s up,” he said, his features stony.

  Oh, she hated time, especially each reminder that it was quickly running out.

  “I haven’t given up hope,” she said urgently into the phone, wishing more than anything that she could throw her arms around her brother. “I will never give up hope, Hunter. You did nothing wrong and I will do whatever it takes to prove that to the world.”

  Whatever brief moment of levity they had shared over the memory of a stray mutt, Hunter had once more donned that impassive mask. “Don’t waste your life on me, Tay. I’m not worth it. Go back and finish your residency. Be a doctor. Help people.”

  She wanted that—oh, how she wanted that—but right now she had other work.

  “I’ll see you next Tuesday,” she said.

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but the guard roughly snapped on the transfer handcuffs and led him out of the room.

  She watched him go, his back tall and straight, and wondered how much more of him would crumble away before next Tuesday.

  * * *

  Wyatt never minded waiting.

  He considered it research, a rare and wonderful chance to study people in a variety of situations, the whole rich texture of the human experience.

  He spent the twenty minutes he waited for Taylor cataloguing the others in the waiting room, wondering about their stories, imagining the journeys their lives had taken to lead them to this point.

  As he did wherever he went, his mind recorded impressions as he looked around the room.

  He saw an older woman with stunning blue eyes and a face etched with character holding tight to the arms of her chair, her spine straight and her feet in their sensible brown shoes precisely lined up on the floor. Was she here to see a son or a grandson? he wondered.

  Across the room sat a man of about fifty with a tattoo of an American flag just below his shirtsleeve and an Elvis-like pompadour and sideburns. He was a mechanic, Wyatt figured, at least judging by the grime under his fingernails and the faint shadow of permanent oil stains on the knees of his jeans. The man fidgeted and glanced at the clock every few moments while pretending to leaf through a hot-rod magazine.

  Nearest the door to the visiting area sat a pregnant girl who couldn’t have been a day older than eighteen, her belly stretched beneath a blue T-shirt that exposed a few inches of skin above her low-rider jeans. She chewed gum loudly and looked bored to tears, but every once in a while she paused to lay a loving hand across her stomach and her heavily made-up features would soften with a warm maternal glow.

  No, he didn’t mind waiting. This was life, gritty and real.

  He was making a few notes from his conversation with Hunter in the steno notebook he had carried in with him when the man’s sister walked through the checkpoint.

  She wasn’t a frail woman by any means, but for just a moment as she paused there at the entrance to the waiting room, she looked fragile, brittle almost. When she caught sight of him, he watched her take a deep breath and then paste on a polite smile as she walked toward him with a grace that seemed out of place here.

  “Mr. McKinnon. Thank you for waiting.”

  She was extraordinarily beautiful, he thought, with that luminous skin and those dark blue eyes. He wondered if she had any idea how fresh and lovely she looked here in these grim surroundings, even with exhaustion stamped on her features.

  “No problem. I didn’t mind, especially since I cut into your time with your brother.”

  She looked as if she wanted to say something, then changed her mind.<
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  “I wanted to apologize for the other night at your book signing, for coming on so strong,” she said after a moment. “I suppose I’m a little too protective of Hunter. He tells me I am, anyway.”

  “It’s natural in this situation. Perfectly understandable. You want to make everything right again for him, the way things were before all of this happened.”

  “I can’t do that.” The bleakness in her voice gave him the oddest urge to pull her into his arms.

  “Probably not.” He debated the wisdom of his next words, then threw caution to the wind. “Your brother knows his own mind. Despite the fact that most of his life is out of his control now and other people now tell him when he can shower and what he can eat, he’s not helpless. He has his reasons for wanting to tell his story and he trusts me not to write a ‘salacious’ book. Maybe you should too.”

  She winced at his deliberate use of her word from the other night. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve read a few of your books and none of them were salacious. I’m sure this one wouldn’t be either.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and he was struck by the pale tracery of veins in her eyelids. She had the delicate skin of a redhead but she still looked as if she had spent too much time indoors lately.

  When she opened her eyes again there was a determined light in them. “You’re right, Hunter wants you to do this book and he’s asked me to cooperate with you. I can do little enough to help him, but at least I can do this.”

  “Against your better instincts.”

  “Maybe. But haven’t you ever gone ahead with something when your instincts were telling you to run, Mr. McKinnon?”

  He thought of how his own instincts were warning him right now to run away from this woman with her expressive eyes and her passionate defense of her brother. If he let her, he had a strong feeling she could be hazardous not only to this project but, worse, to his heart.

  “Listen, I know a great diner in Draper,” he said, deciding to ignore his better judgment. “What do you say I buy you a cup of coffee and we can talk about the book? I’ll see if I can allay some of your concerns—and maybe convince you to call me Wyatt.”

  Indecision flickered on her features. She started to nibble her lip, then checked the motion. “All right,” she said, with a quick glance at her watch. “I have a study group at seven but I’m free until then.”

  Wyatt refused to worry about the excitement flowing through him at the idea of spending a few more minutes with Taylor Bradshaw.

  CHAPTER 3

  He beat her to the diner.

  Despite the hour—too early for dinner, too late for lunch—several of the booths at Dewey’s were full when Wyatt walked inside alone. The squat, unassuming restaurant served to-die-for mashed potatoes and several kinds of divine pie. It was a popular spot with visitors to the prison and with guards after their shifts.

  He had always found it odd how much economic development seemed to spring up around prisons, the thriving little microeconomies correctional facilities fostered.

  Taylor arrived just as the hostess was finding a booth for them. “Sorry,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “I wasn’t paying attention and drove right past the place.”

  “No problem. You’re here now.”

  They slid into opposite sides of the brown vinyl booth with the awkwardness of near-strangers suddenly finding themselves in close quarters. After a few moments of perusing the menu, Taylor ordered a chicken taco salad and a diet cola while he settled for coffee and a slice of Dewey’s famous boysenberry pie.

  “I didn’t have time for lunch today,” Taylor explained after the waitress walked away to give their order to the kitchen, “and my study group will probably go long past dinnertime. This might be my only chance to eat until midnight.”

  “What class is your study group for?”

  She made a face. “Constitutional law. My least favorite class. I need all the help I can get in there.”

  “Why would a medical student need to study constitutional law?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

  “A medical student wouldn’t. It’s a requirement for second-year law students, though.”

  He stared at her. “When did that happen? During the trial I could swear I heard you were attending the U. medical school, that you were close to graduation. I thought somebody told me you intended to specialize in pediatrics.”

  If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might have missed the quick spasm of misery that crossed her features before they became impassive again.

  “Things change.”

  “Wow. I’ll say. Law school now? That’s a major career shift.”

  She absently fiddled with a sugar packet from the wire rack on the table. “Sometimes you think you have your life all nicely mapped out. Then fate picks you up, shakes you around until your teeth rattle, and plops you down on a completely different path.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t picture her as an attorney, starchy suit and case files and law books. The whole white coat–stethoscope thing seemed a much better fit.

  He wasn’t sure why, he only knew that Dr. Taylor Bradshaw sounded much more natural to his ear than Taylor Bradshaw, Esquire.

  “Why law?” he asked.

  She paused for several seconds, her brow creased as if struggling to formulate an answer. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the waitress arrived their order.

  “Here you go, doll,” the cheerful waitress said as she set Taylor’s taco salad in front of her with a flourish.

  In all the times he had been here, Wyatt had never seen the woman with anything but a smile on her face.

  “Let me tell you, that chicken is delish today. It’s always good but today the cook outdid himself. I had it for my own lunch and just about licked the plate clean.”

  She handed Wyatt his pie with a wink. “And I don’t have to tell you how good the boysenberry pie is, since you order it just about every time you come in. Enjoy.”

  She had just left when a group of three men walked past. One of them paused and did a double take at their booth as Wyatt was enjoying his first sweet taste of berries.

  “Taylor? What are you doing here?”

  Wyatt chewed and swallowed while he tried to suppress his irritation at recognizing the balding man in the high-dollar suit. At first glance, Martin James looked mild-mannered and unprepossessing. He was about the same height as Taylor, slightly pudgy, with smooth, pleasant features and warm brown eyes.

  First impressions could be deceiving, though. In this case, the man was a shark in the courtroom, one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in the state. But even James’s reputation for dogged determination and creative representation hadn’t been enough to acquit at least one of his infamous clients—Hunter Bradshaw.

  Taylor apparently didn’t hold a grudge at the man who had been unable to see her brother acquitted. She rose with delight on her features and kissed Martin James on his round cheek. “It’s Tuesday. I always visit on Tuesday, remember? What about you? Have you been to see Hunter?”

  “No. I had an appointment with one of my other clients,” the attorney said. “If I had remembered Tuesdays were your day to visit, my dear, we could have driven out together.”

  She smiled at the man with a familiarity that surprised Wyatt, until he remembered hearing during the trial that Martin James and Taylor’s late father, William Bradshaw, had been friends outside the courtroom.

  “Thanks,” she answered, “but I didn’t feel much like being in a NASCAR time trial today.”

  “Are you insinuating I drive too fast?” Martin asked her with mock offense.

  “Not at all. I think the fingernail gouges in my thighs have almost healed from the last time I rode somewhere with you.”

  Martin laughed and squeezed her hand.

  As Wyatt watched, Taylor suddenly seemed to remember his presence.

  “I’m sorry. Martin, this is Wyatt McKinnon.”

&nb
sp; “We’ve met,” James said, all warmth gone from his voice and his features like a January cold snap. “McKinnon.”

  He nodded with the same coolness. Hunter Bradshaw wasn’t the first client of Martin James whose story he had written. Wyatt’s second book, Eye of the Storm, had chronicled the kidnap and murder of Rebecca Jordan. Martin James had represented Rebecca’s husband, convicted of paying two teenagers to kill his wife. The attorney hadn’t been at all thrilled to show up in Eye of the Storm, especially as Wyatt had chronicled some of the backdoor wrangling that had gone on between attorneys involved in the case.

  James had threatened to sue him for defamation of character, but the threats never went anywhere, since Wyatt had documentation that every word in his book had been true.

  Taylor looked from one to the other as if trying to figure out what had sparked the sudden tension. “Wyatt is writing a book about Hunter’s case,” she told the attorney. who looked not at all surprised—or pleased—by the information.

  “I know. Your brother told me he was talking to him.”

  “Martin was a good friend of our father’s and represented Hunter at trial,” she explained to Wyatt, then winced. “I guess you would know that about the trial anyway. I forgot you were there. You would have seen him in the courtroom.”

  “Right. How are you, Martin?” Wyatt asked.

  “Fine. Busy. I’m up to my ears in cases.”

  The affection on Taylor’s features hardened a little and she sent the attorney a pointed look. “That must be why you haven’t returned any of my calls or e-mails for the past two weeks.”

  A trapped light entered Martin’s eyes and he suddenly looked as if he wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere far away. “I was out of town last week at a conference in Santa Barbara.”

  “What about this week?”

  Though the cornered look was still there in his eyes, Martin’s sigh was heavy and heartfelt. “I wish I had all the time in the world to devote to Hunter’s appeal, but I don’t. Your brother is not my only client, Taylor. You know that.”