“Tramadol?” Gwen repeated.
“Yes, it’s a pain med. We prescribe it frequently. Do you know where your mother may have gotten the drug?”
She shook her head. “My mother hasn’t seen a doctor in at least ten years. There’s no way she could have had access to a medication like that.”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of Wyatt’s stomach. “Isn’t Tramadol frequently used by veterinarians?”
Gwen jerked in his arms.
Dr. Richards nodded. “Sure, I think it’s actually utilized quite often in their line of work.”
“Is it something that could have been in your sister’s bag?” Wyatt asked, looking at Gwen.
She was staring off into space as though she were struggling to understand everything that was happening around her. “Yeah... I know Bianca used it all the time. She kept it around for the dogs on the ranch.”
“So your mother had some sort of access?”
“Sure,” she said, looking at him. “But whatever she may do as far as drinking, she’s never been suicidal. She too ornery to have done this to herself.”
“You mean, before Bianca’s death.” Wyatt squeezed her hand tighter. “Do you think she would have done it now?”
Gwen shook her head. “No. Think about it. She acted like she didn’t know what was going on. If she had been trying to kill herself, don’t you think she would have had more of a clue?”
“Do you think it’s possible she was just trying to smooth off some of the rough edges, and somehow it got out of hand?” the doctor asked.
Gwen looked over at him. “My mother didn’t take an ibuprofen. I’m not kidding. For her, alcohol could cure anything. She wasn’t trying to commit suicide.”
“Was anyone around her or at the house before the time of the incident?” Dr. Richards asked.
The sick feeling in Wyatt’s stomach worsened and he glanced over at Gwen. “My mother...my mom was there. She’s the one who dropped off the bag. But she’d never drug Carla. She didn’t have a bad thing to say about your mom. Ever. Not even with everything that’s happened between our families. She’s a saint.”
Gwen chewed on her lip as she continued to stare into space. “No. It couldn’t have been her. But it had to have been someone who had access to the bag and my mother’s booze.”
Wyatt looked at his phone to check the status of the forensics team. He lifted it so she could see the email they’d sent him. “My team is just wrapping up at the vet clinic,” he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll have them stop by your mom’s for the bag. Hopefully then we can figure out exactly what’s going on.”
Gwen nodded, but he could have sworn she hadn’t blinked in at least a minute.
A thought struck him. It was possible that whoever had killed Bianca may have been trying to kill Carla as well. Maybe they were targeting the women of Widow Maker Ranch. If that was the case, it was only a matter of time until they came after Gwen.
“Please keep Carla under the close watch of hospital staff and security, okay?” Wyatt said with a nod to Dr. Richards. “And please let me know if Carla’s condition takes a turn.” He pointed to his phone. “I’ll be available anytime.”
“No problem. I’ll be in contact,” Dr. Richards said with a serious look. “I’ll make her our unit’s number one priority. She won’t be left alone.”
Wyatt turned to Gwen. “Now, let’s get you home so you can get some much-needed rest.”
She didn’t bat an eye as she nodded.
He was still holding her, so instead of letting go, he pulled her up into his arms and carried her. She laid her head on his shoulder and looped her arms around his neck. He’d never felt anything better.
Tonight, he wouldn’t leave her side. No matter what, he would be there to keep her safe.
* * *
THE PAIN IN Gwen’s chest, the one that always seemed to be there, was suddenly all-consuming, and for the first time in her life, she realized it wasn’t the pain of loss. No. It was the pain that came with living. Of being tired of the constant beating life gave her. Of being perpetually confused as she sorted through the feelings in her heart and the thoughts in her head. More than anything, it was the pain of being pulled between the dreams she had for her life and the reality of it.
Nothing was ever going to change. She would forever be taking care of her mother and the mess she had become.
She was crazy to hope for anything different.
As much as she had begged for her mother to stay and fight for her life, in a deep, dark place in Gwen’s heart she secretly wished her mother could have simply fallen to the floor and slipped away. And Gwen hated herself for it.
She looked out from under her eyelashes. Wyatt was asleep in the recliner beside his bed.
He had kept his promise to stay by her side for the night. He hadn’t even acted like he wanted the bed, nor had she pushed it. Instead she had simply let him carry her in and lay her in the bed, clothing and all, and tuck her in as if she were a child—a child in desperate need of tenderness and care.
She stared at his sleeping face. It was a face she had looked at thousands of times over the years, but for once she felt like she was truly seeing him for the man he was. At times he was imperfect, but those imperfections—the need to protect at all costs, his stoicism, the fear he seemed to have about opening up—only made him seem hotter.
And admittedly, she couldn’t blame him for his fear of opening up. She was part of the reason he felt the way he did. It was an injury that she would never forgive herself for. He hadn’t deserved to have his dreams crushed by her—even if she had thought it had been for all the right reasons.
Beyond his endearingly beautiful imperfections there were so many other reasons to fall. She knew him. She could close her eyes and see his face in perfect detail. She knew his smile when he was truly, sublimely happy versus the smile he shared with the world. And she knew the sound he made when he slipped into the comfort of sleep.
Part of her wanted to reach out, to wake him up and pull him into her arms, to feel him around her and bask in his warmth. Yet seeing him there, resting peacefully, she didn’t want to disturb him. He’d had just as hard a day as she had. And maybe that self-sacrifice and compromise was the real mark of true, undying love—even if it was a love she may never get to fully realize.
Chapter Twelve
Sometimes there just wasn’t enough coffee in the world. Wyatt felt like he had been hit by a Mack truck. Wyatt’s neck ached after the night sleeping in the chair, but it was worth it—especially when he’d come in after morning chores and sat and watched as Gwen opened her eyes to the morning light.
She was so beautiful. He could have sat there all day, watching her breathe as the sun cascaded in through the curtains, flooding the sweet lines of her face. She had always been his dream. All of her. Yet some dreams just weren’t meant to be realized.
Or maybe it was some cosmic joke, and he was still in the middle of learning something he hadn’t quite yet grasped.
He pulled a long drink from his steaming cup and set it back in the car’s cup holder.
“You okay?” Gwen asked as she clicked her seat belt into place. “Are you sure you want to run to the neighbor’s? We can wait a bit.”
“No, I’m fine. I already fed the horses, and it’s just the west pasture with the cattle, right?”
She nodded. “You fed them all? Wow, I’m impressed. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Thought you needed to sleep in.”
“I thought it was my turn,” she teased, with a wink.
He laughed. “By the way,” he continued, “I talked to the doctor this morning. Your mom’s doing well. They’re going to keep her for a bit, monitor her vitals until they’re sure she’s out of the woods with this. They�
��re worried, however, that she’ll start going through detox if they keep her too long.”
The smile on her face disappeared, and he wished he hadn’t brought up her mother. It was always one topic that he should avoid, but with things being what they were it was nearly impossible. Yet he would have done anything to bring the smile back to her lips.
“Did they ask her if she took the pills?” Gwen sighed.
“She didn’t remember anything. And she said she couldn’t remember where she had gotten the vodka. She made it sound like you had left it for her.”
“I never buy her alcohol. She’s full of crap.” Gwen sighed and she looked out the window as he started the car. “She’s trying to stir the pot and make it sound like I enable her. I hope you told the doctor what kind of woman my mother can be.”
“I didn’t have that kind of time, but I happen to know that Dr. Richards knows a person can’t be weighed and measured by their kin.”
“Well, at least that’s something.” Gwen laughed. “Did he learn anything about her mental state? You know, whether or not he thought she could have wanted to end things?”
“From what he said, he didn’t think she had made any conscious choice. They aren’t going to seek psych for her.”
“I don’t think it would be a bad thing. She needs help. Maybe this can be her rock bottom.”
He hated to tell her, but most rock bottoms—the moment when an addict decides to turn their life around—were myths. It took near death to make an addict realize they had a problem, and sometimes even that wouldn’t work—and death was the only way to end their addiction.
For his biological mother, prostitution and jail were the norm, not the exception. And, in the case of Carla, she was probably just as desensitized as his mother had been. It was probably not the first time she found herself on the floor after a day spent drinking—for her, it was probably just another day she didn’t remember.
He glanced over at Gwen. Her mother needed help to step out of her addiction, but if she did seek rehabilitation, Gwen would have to remodel her life into something completely new and foreign—it would be a life for just her—and he couldn’t have been happier for her and the idea of her freedom.
He took another drink of his coffee and started down the road to the neighbor’s house. The caffeine was kicking in. Maybe there was hope for the day after all.
They bumped down the driveway toward the Widow Maker and a house that used to be part of the ranch, but had been sold off in order for the Johansen women to make ends meet. Now an older couple who had retired and moved to Montana from Chicago lived in it. The place was well kept. Fake bunches of red poinsettias filled the flower baskets on each side of the porch. As they parked and made their way to the door, a Border collie bounded around from the backyard to greet them.
“Hiya, pup,” Wyatt said, squatting down to give the dog a good scratch behind the ears. He’d always loved animals.
“His name’s Rufio. You know, like the boy from the movie Hook.” A woman in her midfifties stepped out from the side of the house from which the dog had come.
“Great movie,” Wyatt said. “I loved watching it when I was a kid.” He gave a slight wave in greeting as the woman stepped up onto the porch. “Name’s Deputy Fitzgerald. I was just hoping I could ask you a few questions if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, I know who you are. Who wouldn’t in this town? I’m Dorothy Donaldson,” the woman said with a knowing smile. “Your mother and I play cribbage down at the Fraternal Order of Eagles clubhouse about every other Saturday. She tells me all about you and your brothers. She’s proud of you boys.”
The thought of his mother expounding on him to strangers made him uncomfortable. “I don’t know what she could’ve told you about. I just get up and go to work every morning.”
“That’s a heck of a lot more than what some kids do these days.” Dorothy rubbed her gloved hands together and sent bits of snow to the ground. She glanced over at Gwen. “And how are you doing today? It’s nice to see you. How’s your mother doing?”
Gwen gave a polite smile, the one that masked all the pain she was feeling inside—he knew it all too well. “Actually we’re here about her.”
“Is that right?” Dorothy said, looking at Wyatt. “What can I help you with? Has she gone missing?”
He thought back to the moment he had first seen Gwen again, before he’d told her about Bianca’s death, to the reaction she’d had at seeing him on their doorstep. She had been so angry with her mother for some mistake she had assumed she’d made, but now it made more sense. It seemed as though Carla had a bigger reputation as the town mischief maker than he had realized.
“Not missing,” Gwen continued. “Not this time. Actually, she was drugged last night.”
Wyatt nodded. “And we were wondering if you, by chance, happened to see anyone coming or going yesterday?”
“Well, there was your mother, Wyatt.” Dorothy motioned toward the road. “She stopped by here on her way over. She said she had to drop something off.”
“Did you see anybody else?”
The woman puckered her lips as she thought, and the action made him wonder if she was a recovering smoker.
“After your mother left...I think there was another car. I couldn’t tell you the model.”
“But it was a car? Not a truck or an SUV?” Wyatt asked, pressing her to get the best description he could get.
“No, it was definitely a car. Not one that I’d seen before. I think it was black.”
“Did you manage to catch a glimpse of whoever was driving?”
“Yeah. It was a woman, but I didn’t get a good look at her face.”
“Young or old? Blonde, brunette?” he pressed.
Dorothy shrugged. “I really couldn’t tell you. You’re lucky I remember the car at all.”
“What made you remember it?”
“You mean besides the fact that there are only about three cars that go to the Widow Maker with any consistency?” She laughed.
He chuckled. It was one of those realities of country living that he equally hated and loved—especially when it came to his investigations. He could always go to the neighbors in a remote rural place. Someone usually saw something.
“I guess what drew my attention,” Dorothy continued, “was that the woman had a pair of red Ariats in the window.”
“Ariats?” he asked.
“You know,” she said, motioning to her feet. “Cowboy boots. I think they were Fatbabies. I’ve been wanting a pair. They have a blue pair down at the ranch-supply store I think I may have to go pick up.”
“Oh, they are cute,” Gwen added. “They’re the ones with the thick soles, right?”
“Yep. And the ones in the car window were very nice. You know, if you’re into red boots.” Dorothy gave a raise of the brow as she glanced over at Gwen, like the color of the boots made them obscene.
“Oh, I like red boots. Sometimes,” Gwen said with a little laugh and a dismissive wave.
“Do either of you know anyone who would wear those kind of boots?”
Dorothy shrugged. “No one comes to my mind, but then again, I don’t get out of my house much. You know how it is.”
Wyatt smiled. “I appreciate your help, and hey.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, or if you see the car again, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
She took the card and, giving it a quick glance, stuffed it into her back pocket. No doubt if Dorothy wanted to tell him something, he would probably hear it from his mother long before he would hear it from her. In fact, it was more than likely that his mother would get a call from her friend before he was even out and onto the main road.
He gave Dorothy an appreciative nod as he got in
to the patrol unit.
“What was going on with the whole red boots thing?” he asked, easing the car out of the driveway and toward the road that led into the small town.
“My mother used to have red boots.” Gwen smiled. “And that neighbor and I... Let’s just say that if she never saw my mug again she wouldn’t miss it. I’ve had to rescue her from my screaming mother, wearing those damned red boots, more than once.”
“From your mother?”
“Sometimes, on real bad nights, she forgets we’ve sold the place.” Gwen shifted in the seat as she reached down and took out a lipstick from her purse and applied it without looking in the mirror. “Once,” she said, “she thought that the woman living there was seeing my father.”
“She thought your dead father was having an affair?”
She nodded. “Our neighbor really didn’t appreciate getting woken up at 2:00 a.m. when my mother accused her of being a slut.”
The pink color of her lipstick made her face brighten with color, and for a second he wondered if she’d put it on in an effort to look even more beautiful for him. He pushed the thought aside. She wouldn’t be trying to impress him. Not after everything they’d been through. Yet as he looked at her, she smiled, and there was a new softness in her eyes.
She sighed. “I’m not sure, but I think toward the end, my father may have been going behind my mother’s back. She had been drinking before he died, but it didn’t take a dark turn until he was gone. And I can’t take my mother’s word on this kind of thing... Half of it is real and half of it... Well, it’s just whatever she’s imagined.”
“It must be so hard,” Wyatt said, reaching over to put his hand on her thigh.
She looked down at his hand, but she didn’t move away. Instead she put her hand on his. She started making small circles with her fingers on the back of his hand. “Is this how you do it?”
He smiled. She was doing it right and had to have known it, but he couldn’t miss this chance.
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