by Desiree Holt
Jamie shifted in her chair, swinging her legs over the side. “Complaining is more like it."
"Honey, a woman doesn't complain about a man for twelve years. So what's shaking?"
Jamie swallowed a sigh and angrily brushed away another tear. “Nothing's shaking. I'm just trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life."
There was a long silence at the other end of the connection. “Jamie, you don't sound so good. What's going on?"
"I'm fine, Kit. Really.” If only her voice didn't quiver so much.
"Oh, you lie so bad. Shame on you. This is Kit you're fibbing to. Remember?"
Oh, yes. Kit who could spot a lie a mile away.
"I'm doing all right, considering. I just have to get some things straightened out."
"Like the big bad sheriff?” Her tone was light, but Jamie heard the concern underneath.
"You can stop worrying about me. Honestly. I'm getting it together.” Jamie held the cold can of soda against her forehead, rolling it back and forth. A bitch of a headache was growing behind her eyes.
"Pardon me if I don't quite believe you. Listen, where is this place you are, anyway? How far out in the middle of nowhere?"
Jamie sat up quickly, banging her arm on the chair. “Kit, do not even think of coming out here."
"Cool down, okay? I just want to know where to go and claim the body when you do away with yourself."
"Ha ha. Very funny. Listen, I have things to do. It's nice to hear your cheerful voice, but I have to get going."
Before I do something stupid like break down and bawl on the phone.
"If you say so. But since you won't pick up the phone and give me a ring to let me know you're still breathing, I'm calling you again tomorrow, you hear?"
"Absolutely.” Jamie actually felt her mouth turn up in a tiny smile. “I live for the sound of your voice."
She hated the sarcasm she knew came across in her conversation. Kit was her lifeline, the one person who was always there for her. But she didn't need her friend's mothering right now or her insistent habit of giving orders if she thought Jamie was headed in the wrong direction. She'd wisely held her tongue when the story of the hoax came out. She'd been the only one to tell Jamie it sounded too good to be true.
A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the ancient oaks in the back yard, sweeping away some of the day's heat that still clung to the air. Summer in Texas was often only a step away from the fires of hell. Jamie finished the soda and pushed herself out of the chair. She realized she hadn't eaten all day, a good probable cause of the headache. Food had no appeal for her, but common sense told her to put something in her stomach.
She'd only bought a meager supply of groceries on her way into town, but she sure didn't feel like going out. A survey of her supplies and she settled for a peanut butter sandwich and milk. Her old standby.
She was standing at the counter eating when the phone rang. Without thinking, she lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Miss Randall."
Oh, God. Gray Ballou. She was hardly in the mood to talk to him tonight. “Listen, Mr. Ballou. I'm really very busy right now."
"I just wanted to see if you'd taken a minute to think over my offer. I can make it a very attractive one."
Jamie resisted the urge to slam the phone down. Better to just get rid him of altogether. “I told you earlier. I'm not interested in selling, so you can stop calling here."
"I think you're making a big mistake.” His voice had turned hard, even while it never lost its smoothness.
"Then it's my mistake to make. Good-bye, Mr. Ballou."
Jamie washed down the last bite of her sandwich with milk, irritated because she knew she was about to make another error in judgment. But she had no one else to call in Amen except Zane and she really wanted to find out who this jerk was.
She pulled the ragged telephone book from a drawer and looked up the number, dialing it with great reservation.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff Cameron is gone for the day,” the deputy who answered told her. “You might could catch him at home, unless he's outside working."
"Thank you."
Call him at home? Wonderful. She leafed through the phone book again until she found the listing for Z. Cameron. The phone ran four times, and she was just about to hang up when he answered.
"Cameron."
"Hello, Zane. It's Jamie."
Silence.
When he spoke, his voice was tight. “What can I do for you? It must be pretty damn important for you to call me at home."
"Listen, this was a bad idea. I'm sorry I bothered you."
"No, don't hang up.” The words were sharp enough to keep her on the line. “I'm sure it wasn't easy for you to call me. After today, that is."
She didn't want to ask him exactly which part of today he was referring to. “I just had a question, and I didn't know who else to ask."
"Go ahead."
"Do you know a man named Grayson Ballou?"
"Gray? Sure.” Another strained silence. “What do you have to do with Gray Ballou?"
"First tell me who he is,” she insisted.
"He's a businessman. Owns a number of businesses, as a matter of fact. One of them is Diablo Ag Con where my mother works."
Great. Just great. His mother, the bitch, whose most familiar expression was a sneer. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway, looking down on other people? And she had to work for this Ballou guy, whoever he was.
"Does he live around here?"
"Jamie, why are you asking all these questions about a man you've never met?"
She could visualize Zane gripping the telephone and scowling. “Well, does he? Answer me and I'll tell you."
"He lives in San Antonio, but he has a house in Copper Ridge. Now, tell me what this is all about?"
She drew circles with her finger in a tiny puddle of milk on the counter. “He called me today and said he wanted to buy this place."
"But that's absurd!"
She could hear the surprised skepticism. “I thought so, too."
"Jamie, at the risk of pissing you off again, that place isn't worth more than a pile of dog shit. Why would a sharp businessman like Gray want to buy it?"
Her sandwich and milk were beginning to roll in her stomach. “I don't know. I thought you might know something I don't."
More silence. “Are you sure you heard him right?"
"For god's sake, Zane. He called me twice."
"Something's screwy here. Why don't I give him a call tomorrow? See what gives."
"No.” She hadn't meant to shout. “No, please.” Her voice was lower. “I told him not to call again so he probably won't."
"Maybe."
She could almost hear his brain working. “Zane..."
"This is just so out of character for him. Gray's a sharp businessman. People say he could cut himself without a knife. I can't imagine any reason why he'd want a worthless piece of property like you've got sitting out there."
"Me either. Listen, please don't call him. All right?"
He took a long time answering her. “Okay. But if he calls you again, I want you to let me know."
"All right."
"Jamie?” His voice was low and deep now.
"Yes?"
"Today wasn't the end of it. Not by a long shot. I won't let you run away from me again."
She gave a hollow laugh. “Where would I run to? Listen, Zane, I'm the last woman on earth you want to have anything to do with right now. I'm used up. Discarded. And my outlook on life would depress Pollyanna. Do us both a favor and stay away."
"Now, darlin', you know I can't do that.” His voice was like a heated caress, like warm syrup sliding over her skin.
Her stomach clenched again, but this time for a different reason. If she closed her eyes, she could feel his tongue again lapping at her pussy, his cock plunging into her to the hilt.
"Zane..."
"I'll be by to see you tomorrow, Jamie. Just
to see you're doing okay. You hear me? Oh, and by the way, if you're through looking at that stupid accident report, put it away somewhere. And get Duke to give you what he can for the parts and haul that wreck back out of your yard."
Anger surged through her again. “Damn you."
He chuckled. “Night, darlin'."
Shit!
She slammed the receiver down. The man was infuriating. She had been right. Calling him was a mistake. So why did hearing his voice make her pulse race and her mouth turn dry?
Could she possibly be any more messed up?
She looked around the house. The task of cleaning the living room seemed more daunting than she wanted to think about at the moment. She had a passable bedroom and bath for herself; the tiny downstairs half bath was usable. The kitchen could take as much as a week to do, as bad a shape as it was in. Maybe it was time to dig through the stuff in her father's bedroom.
She'd studiously avoided it since she first walked into the house, unwilling to touch anything that had been a personal possession of his. But maybe if she went through everything, tossed out most of the junk, it would be like exorcising a demon. Maybe the house would seem more like hers.
She stretched and forced herself to walk down the hall to the closed door. She hadn't set foot in this room since she was a child. Most of the time, she'd hidden in hers, coming out to forage for food when he wasn't around. She'd learned at a very young age how to wash her own clothes and braid her hair.
Was it any wonder she'd run away from here as fast as she could? Some days she felt twice as old as her thirty years.
When she opened the door, a wave of musty air hit her. She wrinkled her nose and hurried to raise one of the windows. Even hot air was better than no air.
Standing by the window, she let her eyes roam around the room. The bed was unmade, as expected, the sheets a dingy grey. Dirty clothes were piled on a chair and tossed on the floor. A thick layer of dust covered everything.
Swell. Just what she needed.
Fetching a garbage bag from the kitchen, she began tossing things into it—old clothes, magazines, newspapers, scraps of things. When she'd filled up one bag, she got another. She worked like a woman possessed, as if discarding everything of her father's would free her from some kind of emotional prison. And maybe it would. Maybe this was what she needed to break down the emotional wall she'd lived behind all these years.
An hour later she'd filled five garbage bags, emptied the dresser and nightstand, and picked up everything from the floor. She stripped the bedding from the mattress and threw it on the pile. Tomorrow she'd call Duke and ask him who she could get to haul away the mattress and all the furniture in the room. Then she'd clean the walls and the floor with the strongest disinfectant she could buy. But she could never sleep in this room. Nothing would wash away the memories of the miserable old drunk who'd lived here.
Finally, standing in the middle of the room and looking around, she drew in a deep breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead with her arm. All that was left to go through was the closet. Maybe she could finish tomorrow.
But something pushed at her to get at it tonight. Get it done and over with. Snagging another soda from the fridge, she threw open the closet door and almost gagged at the stench that greeted her. Frank Randall must have stored his really dirty laundry in here.
As before she just pulled things out and stuffed them in garbage bags. She wished she'd thought to get herself a pair of gloves before starting this project. God only knew what kind of diseases were hiding out in the ragged, filthy garments.
By the time she'd emptied the hangers and pulled everything up off the floor she was sure she was ready to vomit. How could anyone live like this? But then she remembered all those years growing up here and her revulsion at the condition of the man who was her father.
She had to pull a straight chair over to reach the things on the shelf. Even then she had to scrabble to pull some of the things forward. A gym bag in the corner was stuck, and she had to tug on it to free it. When it finally came loose, it nearly hit her on the head, and she, and the bag, tumbled to the floor.
I'll have a hell of a bruise on my ass.
She scooted back against the wall and hauled the bag next to her. The zipper had a lock on it, but the fabric was so old and rotted that she was able to pull it apart with her hands. Opening it wide, she peered inside and thought for a moment she was seeing things. Her heart did a little stutter step and cold sweat broke out on her face.
Holy shit!
Inside the bag were bundles of money, some held together with rubber bands, some just stuffed inside in handfuls. The denominations were all fifties and hundreds.
Jamie just stared at it, stunned. Where would Frank Randall get this much money? What could an old drunk possibly do that someone would pay him like this? And, obviously, over a long period of time, judging by the aging process. All this time, just sitting in his closet.
She got up to retrieve her drink, then sat down again and hauled the heavy bag into her lap. Whatever her father had been doing, he'd been into for some years, which answered the question of how he put food on their table, kept a roof over their heads, and bought the necessities of life. She'd never questioned the fact that when she needed money, he always gave her cash. Even a child would not have expected him to have either checks or a credit card.
But where had it all come from? And how much was there?
She finished her drink, got up again and took the gym bag over to the bed to dump its contents onto the soiled mattress. With shaking hands, she began counting the money, putting it in stacks of a thousand. When those stacks multiplied fast, she made piles of ten thousand.
By the time she finished, both her back and her head ached fiercely. Laid out before her was more than one hundred thousand dollars. Her mind boggled at how much more there had been over the years that her father used for his living expenses and to pay off the mortgage on the property.
Why hadn't the bank thought something amiss here? After all, everyone knew his reputation. Plus, there couldn't be too many people who made mortgage payments in cash. Why didn't that raise a red flag?
Questions tumbled around in her mind like stones in a pail, exacerbating her headache. Now her stomach really did roil. Her father had been doing something illegally all these years. Just remembering him the way he was, a drunk who couldn't be bothered raising his daughter, was bad enough. But the thought of him involved in criminal activities made her physically ill.
She had no idea what to do about this. Asking someone's advice would be the intelligent thing, but the only person she had to ask was Zane. She'd be damned if she'd open up this can of worms with him. That's all she needed.
Finally, she put all the cash back in the bag and hauled it upstairs to her bedroom. Hesitating only a moment, she took ten thousand out. She hated the thought of using tainted money, but she was teetering on the edge of totally broke, so she stifled her conscience and stuffed the cash in her purse. There was a loose board in the back of her closet where she hid things as a child. She pulled it free, stuck the bag behind it and nailed the board back in place. Unless someone took a magnifying glass to it, there wouldn't seem to be anything out of place.
By the time Jamie got into bed, she was exhausted, but sleep was a long time coming for her. She dreamed of a faceless man chasing her, yelling, “Give me back that money."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seven
In the morning, Jamie was just as tired as when she'd gone to bed. Getting up took every bit of energy she could find. A shower helped, and by the time she'd put away half a pot of coffee, she was feeling at least functional.
Okay. She had some things to do. Number one was getting an Internet connection. She had some research to do about Diablo County and Amen, Texas. And while she was at it, Grayson Ballou. Not that she connected him with whatever happened to her father, but his sudden appearance needed answers.
Dialup
was too frustrating, and she was sure most broadband was unavailable in Amen. But she knew about the Rural Telecommunications Act and she'd seen a dish on the roof of the sheriff's office, so she was pretty sure she could get satellite.
She found the number for Wild Blue in the phone book and had just finished setting the appointment for installation when she heard a car pull up in the driveway. Now who?
"Open up, Jamie.” Zane was banging on the screen.
Jamie walked up to the open door. “What do you want?"
His smile disappeared. “What does it look like? I want to come in. Are we going to play this game every time I show up here?"
"I don't know. How often do you plan to show up?"
"I thought we settled things yesterday."
"You settled things. I didn't agree to anything. And I won't let you run me out of town because of it."
"Open the damn door, or I'll break it down.” He grabbed the outside handle and jerked the frame back and forth.
"All right, all right.” She slipped open the lock and headed back to the kitchen. “I guess you'll want a cup of coffee. Sorry I don't have any doughnuts. Isn't that what cops usually go for?"
He grabbed her arm and whirled her around, his fingers like hot bands of steel on her skin. “Where'd you get such a smart mouth? You were always sassy, but now you're hard.” His gaze raked over her. “What happened to you, Jamie?"
She shrugged. “Life happened. If you let go of me, I'll pour your coffee."
"Forget the damn coffee. I want to talk to you."
"Sorry.” She yanked her arm away and picked up her mug from the counter. “I'm all out of conversation."
Zane moved her so fast the coffee sloshed onto the floor. Before she could protest, she was seated at the old kitchen table with Zane across from her.
"Now, sit there, or I'll handcuff you to the chair."
Indignation burned through her. “Yes, sir, Sheriff. Whatever you say, Sheriff."
"And you can park that backtalk somewhere, too.” He took off his hat and placed it on the table, running his fingers through his hair. His eyes were like embers of coals, and anger stained his cheeks a dark red. His big hands clenched and unclenched as he fixed his hawk-like stare on her.
