“Sheriff Watkins,” he said with a respectful nod. T.C. had always liked the man with the steady gaze, and felt badly that he had to play this political game with the likes of Fowler Colton.
“I need to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
T.C. was fairly sure whether he minded didn’t really play into it. “About?”
“A new suspect in your father’s disappearance,” Watkins said. “One you’ll be able to tell me more about than anyone.”
A movement behind the man caught T.C.’s attention. He glanced over Watkins’s shoulder and saw his brother. Fowler was standing in the doorway of the salon, looking at him past the cop. Smirking.
He’d really done it. T.C. shifted his gaze back to the detective. He didn’t need to ask, and had they been alone he wouldn’t have. But that smirk was like a cattle prod, and that was how he reacted.
“So, what crackbrained theory has my brother come up with this time to throw the suspicion off his precious girlfriend?”
In his peripheral vision he saw Fowler jerk upright, knew his jab had hit home. Yeah, I know what you’re all about, he told him silently.
Watkins looked a bit disconcerted, but when he answered, it was what T.C. had expected.
“Jolie Peters. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Then walk with me,” he said.
He would text Bettina, he decided. Since she was out anyway, it would be better if she knew right away her stores had been raided. He couldn’t stand to be under the same roof as his brother another moment. He gave Fowler a last, disdainful glance, but took some heart in the fact that the smirk had vanished.
“I need some clean air,” he added, and turned his back on Fowler Colton.
Chapter 15
Jolie stared down at the picture she held, impossibly moved both by the image and the fact that he’d kept it. She’d found nothing of the few photos there were of her, photos she knew he’d had made into prints for his desk at work and home, but she wouldn’t have expected them. In fact, she was sure he’d deleted them in short order after she took off, and probably burned the prints. But this one, this lovely shot she had taken, he’d kept.
The details went blurry as moisture brimmed in her eyes. But it didn’t matter; she knew it so well, that picture, because a duplicate of it resided in a upper cupboard in her apartment, still in a frame that matched this one. The image of T.C. holding baby Emma, looking down at her with loving wonder as the tiny girl cooed up at him, was forever etched upon her heart.
The picture was not out for him to see anytime he was here, but it had been tucked between books on an eye-level—well, for her at least—shelf, and once she’d recognized the frame that matched hers, she hadn’t been able to resist the urge. She’d half expected it to be something else, to find he’d replaced the image with something he loved now.
But he hadn’t. He’d kept this. Proof that he would never blame an innocent child for the hurt inflicted by her mother.
“What’s that?” Emma asked.
She’d been so rapt, so held by this precious image of far happier days, that she hadn’t realized Emma had come up beside her.
“Just a picture,” she said, sliding the frame back where she’d found it before the child could see the photo. Although it was unlikely she would realize who the baby in the picture was, Jolie didn’t want to have to lie to her, and explaining in four-year-old terms was beyond her at the moment. She was searching her mind for a distraction when Emma herself provided it by announcing she was hungry.
“Well, let’s see what’s here,” Jolie said, heading for the kitchen area.
Soon Emma was ensconced in the chair at the small table with some crackers spread with peanut butter.
That single chair, Jolie thought. One chair at the table, one chair to sit in. One coffee mug, one plate, one bowl, and one set of utensils. Double bed, but T.C. was a big guy.
The moment she realized she was taking comfort in the signs that he spent his time here alone, she silently called herself every kind of fool she could think of.
Why don’t you go in and see if there’s only one toothbrush? Don’t you have bigger things to worry about? Like what if they never find that woman, that killer who knows where you and Emma live? And what if it really isn’t a coincidence that the poor, murdered woman had looked like you?
But who would want to kill her? Even in her worst years as a reckless kid, she’d never really hurt anyone but herself. And the one person she’d truly, seriously hurt was the one helping her now.
She had no answers. Not to any of it. The idea of having to leave the life she’d worked so hard to build, of uprooting Emma, of leaving the job she was starting to love, and brusque Mrs. Amaro, who had trusted her and been so concerned, telling her not to worry, her job would be waiting for her when it was safe to come back, was more than daunting. It was heart-wrenching. But could she risk Emma by staying?
The only thing she was certain about was that she’d done the right thing, coming to T.C. For Emma’s sake. He would keep her safe, because that was who he was. But she was also certain this couldn’t go on for long. It would be beyond unfair to expect him to put up with this for long, not after what she’d done to him.
With no hope of any immediate solution, she found herself perusing the shelves of books. On a lower shelf, toward one end, she found a foot-wide run of books that surprised her, then warmed her as she realized she should have known. It was a series of books written about a boy growing up on a ranch, and each one looked well read and loved. She pulled one out, and inside the front cover saw in a bold, boyish hand, a young Tom Colton’s signature. That he’d kept these was a touch of sentimentality that would surprise anyone who knew him only as a Colton.
But not her. She knew better. And after all, it was that gentleness beneath the tough, decisive, practical exterior that was making him help her now. If she hadn’t known it was there, she would never have dared to come to him.
She pulled out the first of the books. Scanned the first few pages. Then she turned to Emma, who had finished her snack and was tidily wiping her fingers on the paper towel Jolie had set out.
“Would you like to hear a story about living on a ranch?”
Emma’s eyes brightened. “Like this one?”
“Sort of,” Jolie said, guessing there were few ranches that could match the CVR in size and scope, “but in a different state.”
“’Kay,” the child said.
Moments later they were both comfortably cuddled in T.C.’s big chair, and Jolie began to read aloud. The child listened raptly until the middle of chapter three, when Jolie realized the girl had drifted off to sleep. After last night, another little nap wouldn’t hurt, and she gently lifted the child and carried her to the bed. For a moment, in the sleepiness-inducing warmth, she thought of joining her; she’d had even less sleep than Emma. But the thought of lying on a bed where T.C. slept was too much, and she turned and went back to the chair.
* * *
As he drove back to the refuge, T.C. mulled over the freakishness of this day, that Jolie was suddenly back in his life, with a vengeance. Coming at him from two sides, his father’s situation and hers. What were the odds?
Of course Fowler’s accusations were just more of his usual, trying to deflect attention from Tiffany. T.C. wasn’t sure the woman was quite clever enough to have thought through a plan to get rid of the old man so as to send Fowler into such turmoil that he would turn to her and finally put a ring on it. But T.C. had heard the rumors, and the investigators had questioned Tiffany more than once, so somebody was taking the idea seriously.
And thus had begun Fowler’s campaign to implicate somebody else. Anybody else. T.C. supposed it was a sign that the man really cared about her, deep down. As much as he could care about anyone other than himself, anyway. Although it would
be very like Fowler to jettison even his own family to avoid the inconvenience of finding someone who suited him as well as the by turns vacuous and shrewd blonde.
By the time he pulled up outside the refuge, he was no closer to any answers than he had been for three months. And things were only getting more and more complicated. Not to mention that Jolie was messing with his mind, making clear thinking even more difficult.
He’d hoped that if he ever ran into her again he would be cool and uncaring, even dismissive. That had gone up in flames like an oil well fire the moment she walked into his office. Why on earth had he let himself get sucked into this?
And then, the large box in his arms, he awkwardly opened the door. The first thing he saw was Emma, curled up on the bed asleep.
This was why.
His gaze flicked to the chair, where Jolie had apparently been dozing herself. She snapped awake and rose as he set the box down on top of the cabinet.
“She all right?” he asked, nodding toward Emma.
“Yes. It’s just been a rough night and day for her.”
“And you.”
“If it’s rough for her, it’s rough for me.”
He had no doubt that was true.
“You brought a lot.” Her voice seemed carefully neutral, and he wasn’t sure why. Was she worried she might be stuck here for a while?
“There’s milk and cheese and other stuff in a cooler in the car. Want to get that while I bring in the chair?”
She blinked. “Chair?”
He gestured toward the small table. “I figured you’d need another, so I took one from the tack room, where it wouldn’t be missed. Oh, and remind me to show you how to use the ranch comm system later, just in case. Your phone won’t work on it, but there’s a direct intercom from the car to my cell.”
“You’ve...thought of everything.”
Except how to get out of this, he thought.
Jolie grabbed the cooler and took it inside while he lifted the wooden chair out of the back of the SUV. He started to take it inside, then stopped. It wouldn’t be good for Emma to wake and overhear what had to happen next. So instead he set the chair on the small, covered porch, then went inside and got the other one.
Jolie watched him with a raised brow as he picked it up and headed for the door. He glanced back at Emma, then nodded toward the porch. Whether she thought he simply meant not to disturb the girl, or that they had things to talk about she shouldn’t hear, he didn’t know. But she followed him, stepping outside. She didn’t close the door completely, he presumed so she could hear if Emma called for her.
She was a good mother, in an up-close and personal way. He knew it deep in his bones the same way he knew his own mother hadn’t been, had handed off her children to various nannies and tutors, bringing them out occasionally to display as part of what she saw as the complete Colton picture. As a kid he’d envied some of his friends who had warm, loving parents, something he’d kept to himself because he’d learned early on that no one took a Colton envying anyone seriously. Maybe if he’d been born back in the days when the old man was a literal crook...but it was a moot point, given that his mother would never, ever have even considered marrying that incarnation of Eldridge Colton.
Jolie sat down in the chair closest to the door, and he took the other. T.C. swung his feet up to rest on the porch railing. Jolie said nothing, but he could feel her gaze and knew she was watching him, waiting for whatever it was he had to say.
For a moment that irked him; couldn’t he just want to sit out here to make sure Emma didn’t wake? Why did she assume he had something to say? Why would she think he wanted to talk to her at all?
Except maybe to tell her to go to hell, as his father had often suggested.
You’re the one who paid her off.
She’s the one who took it and ran.
After about the third exchange like that with his father, he’d never mentioned it—or Jolie—again. He’d kept his pain to himself, outwardly presenting the image he knew his father wanted to see, that of a strong, cool Colton, far above being damaged by a mere love affair gone wrong.
Funny, he’d always treasured Jolie’s quietness, how she never felt compelled to fill silences with inane chatter. Yet now he was wishing she was more like his mother, or Tiffany, loath to endure even a moment of silence.
Finally he turned his head to look at her. She met his gaze and still waited, saying nothing.
He let out an audible breath, then, finally, spoke.
“You may need to get a lawyer.”
Chapter 16
Jolie blinked. Her attention was finally ripped from the sudden heat that had swept her when he swung his feet up to the rail, when she’d had the long, powerful length of his legs right before her eyes. A vivid memory of those legs, muscled, strong and naked as he lay beside her, had taken her breath away.
And then he’d spoken and shattered the vision.
Of all the things she could have imagined him saying, that wouldn’t even have been on the list. She was the victim here. She and Emma both were. Why on earth would she need a lawyer?
“You’re going to explain that, I hope?” she said when he didn’t go on.
His mouth twisted at one corner. Then his feet came down, and his boots hit the planked floor of the porch. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, still looking at her. “When was the last time you saw my father?”
She drew back, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. “You already asked if I’d seen him. I told you no.”
“When?”
“You know perfectly well when I last saw your father.”
“The day you took that check.”
“Yes.”
“You never saw him after that.”
She laughed, was a little surprised at how bitter it sounded. She’d thought she’d put that behind her. “Your mother made it quite clear that was a requirement, that I never have contact with a Colton again.” She grimaced. “I guess I’ve blown that.”
He didn’t react. It hit her then, belatedly.
“Is that what you meant?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “That your mother’s going to try and take back Emma’s money because I came to you for help?”
He looked startled for an instant, as if that hadn’t even occurred to him. That both relieved and unsettled her; if not that, then what?
“My mother has no idea you did, or that you’re here,” he said, looking away from her. “No one does.”
She wondered if that was because he was ashamed he’d done it. She wouldn’t blame him for that. There were some—with his own brother Fowler at the top of the list, along with his uncharming sister Marceline—who would likely call him a Texas-sized fool for having anything to do with her. It could, she realized belatedly, even call his judgment into question, which in turn could cause him problems at work; if Fowler found out he had—
“Fowler,” he said, startling her since the man had that instant been in her thoughts, “has sicced the investigators on yet another new suspect in my father’s disappearance.”
“Another?”
“He’s been trying to steer them off Tiffany.”
Jolie drew back slightly. “Is she really a suspect?”
“She’s on the list. Which is silly. I don’t think she’s smart enough to have pulled this off.” He looked back at her then. “But you are.”
She got it then. “What? You mean Fowler aimed them at me?”
He nodded. “He told me his new theory Tuesday, after he spotted you in the city.”
Fowler had been that close to her, close enough to recognize her? Immediately she started trying to figure out where he could have seen her.
But T.C. gave her no time to dwell on it. “I never thought he’d really do it. But they were at the hous
e when I got there.”
She opened her mouth, but the only thing she could think of to ask was if he believed it. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. But surely he would have brought the law here if he did. Wouldn’t he?
Had he?
“Should I be expecting them to come over the hill at any moment?”
“They don’t know you’re here, either.”
“You didn’t tell them where I was?”
“No.”
She was relieved, but not surprised. Never mind her; he wouldn’t do that to Emma, make her witness her mother being handcuffed and led away under arrest for kidnapping and possibly murder.
“Would you have, if not for Emma?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe it.”
The rush of emotion that flooded her at that simple declaration didn’t just surprise her, it astonished her. It wasn’t just relief at not having investigators, or having Fowler and the sheriff himself, bearing down on her with the destruction of her entire life in the offing, or even the simple demonstration of faith in her...
It was that it was coming from him.
“Why?” she repeated, staring at him with no small amount of wonder.
“You’re many things, Jolie Peters, a liar and an opportunist among them. But you’re not a kidnapper or a killer.”
That quickly he stung her back to reality. “I’m not a liar,” she said, knowing she couldn’t really honestly deny the opportunist tag.
He let out a disgusted-sounding chuckle. “Aren’t you? Wasn’t the entire time we spent together a lie?”
“No.” She sounded sad, miserable even to herself. “None of it was.”
“Then why—”
He cut himself off as if he hadn’t meant to let even that much out.
“For the same reason you’re helping me now. Emma. I told you that.”
He was silent, probably regretting he’d let even that tiny bit of emotion show.
“What did your brother tell them?”
Colton Family Rescue Page 11
