SINS OF THE FATHER

by Nina Bruhns

  Her chin trembled. "But I want you."

  "I want you, too." He gave a strangled laugh. "God, can't you see how I want you?"

  She nodded miserably. She saw. With her eyes she saw his handsome face, shadowed with torment. With her fingers she saw his body, straining with need. With her heart she saw the man she loved, now more than ever, struggling under the weight of his honor. "Yes, I see."

  "Will you ever trust me again?" he asked, his voice haunted with doubts.

  And with the heartache of eighteen long years she saw how much he was asking of her. But did he?

  At her silence, he sighed, and kissed her fingertips. "It's okay. You don't have to answer."

  And then he stood, handed her the coffee, and walked out the cabin door.

  * * *

  She made him breakfast. It was the least she could do. French toast wasn't that hard to prepare, even on a wood-stove, and she needed something to keep her from running after him in desperation.

  He'd be back. She hoped.

  No. She trusted.

  But did she really? As she dipped and turned bread in the big iron frying pan, she thought about it. Yes, she trusted he'd be back this morning, if only because of the investigation he was conducting. But what about after the investigation was over?

  Last night he'd talked about his vagabond life on the road, going undercover for the FBI on case after interesting case. Would he really give it all up for her? Did she want him to? Despite his earlier ambitions to become a vet, it was plain to see he had a real calling for law enforcement. She didn't want to be the one to put an end to a career he so obviously loved. If he quit, eventually he'd resent her for it, and she'd be hurt. Again.

  Seemed no matter what she chose to do—trust him or not trust him—she'd be the one to get hurt.

  No, that wasn't fair. If she was honest, she'd have to admit he'd been hurt plenty by what had happened in their past. And even more by what she'd told him about their baby. He was trying hard, in his own way, to make it up to her. And she recognized that her constant rejection up until this morning had also hurt him. Too bad it had taken her so long to realize how much she really wanted him. Now it was too late.

  The door swung open and he walked in, looking freshly washed and combed and handsome as ever she'd seen him. She smiled, her heart melting into a puddle in her chest.

  "Breakfast is ready."

  Ignoring his mildly shocked expression, she piled thick slices of French toast on his plate and motioned for him to sit down at the table she'd set, complete with wildflowers.

  "Why'd you do that?"

  "What?"

  "Cook for me."

  She paused to cock a hip at him. "I figure a woman takes ruthless advantage of a man in bed, she owes him breakfast."

  "Did I hear the words bed and breakfast?" Bugs's voice wafted in from the front door, cutting off any reply Roman might have been contemplating.

  He gave her an incredibly tender smile before calling back, "Sure did, compadre. Come on in. But I gotta warn you," he added, "bed's taken."

  Bugs grinned as he trooped in, bearing a short stack of file folders. "Never doubted it. So guess what, kids? We got results."

  RaeAnne tore her gaze from the afterglow of Roman's smile and looked at Bugs. "You know who the killer is?"

  * * *

  One hour and four pans of French toast later, the three of them leaned back in their chairs and contemplated the scatter of papers before them on the table.

  "So," RaeAnne said, hugely disappointed in both Bugs's forensic findings and the reinterviews Dawson had sent along with him. "The only new fact is, we now know our upstanding Fish and Game warden Jason Danforth was a pothead."

  Roman chuckled. "Not necessarily. Finding marijuana traces on his clothes and a handful of leaves in his pocket could have any number of explanations."

  "The guy described in this report didn't really strike me as the pothead type," Bugs said, a forefinger tapping the copies of Danforth's Homicide and Missing Person files.

  "You never know," RaeAnne protested. "It's probably not something he'd advertise."

  "True. To his work buddies. Though you'd think some of his personal friends would be aware of habits like that." Roman extracted the lab report on the marijuana from the pile of papers. "But one thing bothers me about this analysis of the pocket contents."

  "What's that?"

  "They were whole leaves," he said. "Like they'd been pulled right off a stem—flowers, seeds and all. It says here they were hardly even crushed."

  "So?"

  "Marijuana that's sold usually looks more like dried oregano flakes than intact whole leaves," Bugs explained. "And generally the seeds are removed. The growers don't want you starting your own garden with their product."

  "Ah," she said, enlightenment beginning to dawn. "So you're saying Danforth found this marijuana on the hoof, so to speak."

  "Bingo."

  "Which means we might have found a motive for his murder."

  "Exactly. Or at least a hell of a good imitation," Roman said, looking well pleased.

  "A motive that has nothing to do with poaching," she mused, trying to get it straight in her mind. This whole thing was getting more complicated by the minute. "Or Tecopa Lumber Company."

  "Looks that way. Maybe all those coincidences really are just that."

  She frowned skeptically. "I suppose."

  "I'm betting if we find that field of grass, we find the murderer."

  * * *

  "I'm sorry I have to make you do this," Roman said to RaeAnne as they prepared to keep their appointment up at Tecopa Lumber at eleven o'clock. "But I'm not letting you out of my sight."

  RaeAnne didn't know whether to be glad for his concern or irritated by it. The idea of going back to the creepy lumber camp held zero appeal, especially now that they'd moved way down on the list of murder suspects. But Bugs had packed up and left after their meeting, to report for another case down in San Bernardino. And Roman was being stubborn.

  "I'm not a baby. I'll be fine by myself."

  He took her into his arms and kissed her. "You're my baby, and I'm not leaving you here alone."

  How could she argue with that? "Prove it," she murmured, cupping his head and pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

  Gently he extracted himself. But he was grinning. "You're very naughty, you know that?"

  She tipped her head coyly. "And?"

  He winked. "And I like that in a woman."

  She pouted. "Then why do you keep running away from me?"

  He drew his fingertips over her lips, his expression hungry but oh-so-determined. "We have to get going if we're to be on time for Mr. Pritchett's eleven-hundred debriefing." He grabbed the keys. "I'll drive."

  As they jounced up to the camp she pondered their bizarre role reversal. Suddenly she was the one drooling over Roman and he was holding her at arm's length.

  Maybe he was already pulling away, preparing them both for when he'd have to leave. Unable to help herself, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The intimate smile he flashed her as he parked the Jeep said no, he wasn't planning on leaving her anytime soon.

  Should she trust him? Put her heart in his hands and just take the leap and trust him? She wished she knew the answer. If she made the wrong decision, how would she ever go on living?

  * * *

  The meeting at Tecopa went as well as could be expected, Roman figured. Many of the men admitted to owning shot-guns. Most had no objections to them being tested for ballistics. All expressed shock over the murder.

  Nobody confessed. Big surprise.

  "Whew, I'm glad that's over," RaeAnne remarked as they drove away from the camp, Pritchett again watching them until they were out of sight.

  "Still give you the creeps?"

  "Not as much as last time. Just Pritchett and his henchmen."

  The same three older men who'd displayed such lightheartedness last time had stood at the back of the big room R
oman had held the interviews in, looking ready to pounce. He'd been annoyed, but had been unable to convince the guards to leave. He'd done his best to conduct things quietly, to keep the men's statements confidential. Not that there'd been much worth hiding.

  "Yeah. I got the feeling the men would have been a lot more forthcoming without being observed by management. But at this stage there's no evidence of wrongdoing by anyone at Tecopa. No sense antagonizing Pritchett without good reason."

  "Tecopa could be growing marijuana on the side," she suggested.

  "A distinct possibility. Perfect cover. Remote, plenty of forest to hide the fields, lots of equipment and outbuildings to cover the operation."

  And his instincts had been going crazy the entire time in the camp. Things he'd noticed last time, such as the elaborate locks on a few of the buildings, and a couple of sleek, black luxury cars parked in the lot, had fallen into place in light of their suspicions.

  "But unfortunately no evidence."

  "It would be tough to keep so many employees from talking."

  "If we're right, I don't think the men are in on it."

  RaeAnne glanced over at him. "You mean Pritchett and those other three have their own marijuana operation going on the side?"

  The idea made a lot of sense, and fit what little evidence they did have. "That would explain their watchfulness, and the fact that none of the grunts even hinted they knew anything strange was going on. It would be a bit tricky to keep secret, but not impossible."

  "I get the feeling you know something I don't."

  He grinned. "Being the superior agent I am, I did manage to find out something interesting."

  RaeAnne looked over at him expectantly.

  "There's a stand of supposed old-growth trees nobody's ever allowed to enter. Completely fenced, gated and off-limits."

  "Perfect for hiding an illegal marijuana field."

  "Precisely what I thought."

  "Ooh, you're good," she said, matching triumphant grins. "I think you deserve a reward."

  "Do you, now?" He glanced her way as he downshifted. "And what would that be?"

  She tipped her head and angled back against the door, twirling a lock of her long blond hair. "Guess."

  He took in the sight of her, all heated looks, warm smiles and delicious seduction, and almost lost his resolve. "You're being naughty again. I can tell."

  She batted her eyelashes. "Doing my best. What do you say?"

  "I say I'm in big trouble."

  She laughed, the sound tinkling like a wind chime through the open Jeep. She sat up and watched the turnoff to the site whiz by. "Hey! Where are you going?"

  Roman jerked his chin at the pile of carefully bagged and tagged shotguns they were carrying in the back of the Jeep. "Gotta take these to Dawson in Bishop."

  "All the way to Bishop?"

  There was nothing in the world he'd rather do than collect her "reward." But he'd made a firm resolution. Until she trusted him completely, he wouldn't compound the complications by making love again.

  "He made arrangements with the police lab there to do the ballistics testing."

  RaeAnne sighed. "You have to go right this minute?"

  "Yep. So there's no question on the chain of evidence."

  "Oh." She glanced out at the trees bouncing past. "Do I have to come along?"

  "Yes."

  She checked her watch. "I'd really like to get back to work. I still have a few days' digging to finish before I can wrap up the project."

  Roman chewed over that last statement as he slowed to a stop at the highway intersection. She'd said it so casually, he almost hadn't caught the implications.

  "Wrap it up?" He turned to face her. "Does that mean you'll be leaving soon?"

  "I promised the investors the report in less than two weeks," she said, looking at the road, the mountains, the cars speeding by—everywhere but at him. "I need my computer to do the statistics and write it up. Computer's at home."

  He didn't know what to say, so he remained silent.

  She shrugged. "Besides, once this case is solved, you'll be leaving, too." She shot him a challenging glance, and he could almost hear her daring him to deny it.

  "Only if you want me to," he said, tossing the challenge right back at her.

  She puffed out a breath. "Roman, don't say things you don't mean. This is hard enough."

  "But I do."

  She shook her head, the breeze catching the ends of her hair and lifting them in a sunny halo. "You were right. We should forget about the past and the future and just enjoy the days we have left."

  "No." He devoutly wished he'd never said those words. "I want more. And I'm betting you do, too, if you'd listen to your heart."

  "No," she quietly said. "I can't."

  He set the brake and reached for her. Pulled her gently into his arms and stroked her hair. "Trust me," he murmured. "Please trust me. I swear I won't hurt you again."

  He felt her shudder, and lay her cheek against his shoulder. Her hands crept around his waist and held him. Expanding in a sigh, her soft breasts pressed into his chest.

  "I'll try," she whispered.

  * * *

  It was all he could ask. He couldn't compel her to trust him, or shake her until her doubts clattered onto the ground like so much loose change. Not after everything he'd put her through.

  By the time they'd driven to Bishop and dropped off the shotguns at the police lab, he'd convinced himself that for now it was enough.

  "Let's go back to the cabin and make love until morning," he suggested with a roguish grin when they were coming out of a grocery store laden with dinner fixings.

  She gasped in surprise, avoiding the amused glances of nearby people who'd overheard his bold proposition. Beet-red, she shushed him, muttering, "It's not even three-thirty. Besides, you had your chance this morning, Santangelo. I'm going to get some work done before dinner," and then she marched to the Jeep with chin high.

  God, she was cute. And he knew it was just for show. They had an understanding now.

  Didn't they?

  * * *

  Apparently not.

  True to her word, she helped him carry groceries into the cabin, grabbed her camera, then headed out to the storage bin for her shovels and pails. Well, hell. Guess he might as well lend a hand while he tried to figure out what to do next on the case.

  He found her in the meadow, at the unit they'd dug together on that first day—G, she'd called it, or was it E?

  "This where you're going to be working?"

  She glanced up from taking a photo of a wildflower growing next to the precisely dug unit wall. "No. Unfortunately I can't afford the time to take G down any farther than I already have. At least not until I finish the total sample I have mapped out."

  "Sample?"

  "I have to do a certain number of random test units, or the statistics won't be meaningful."

  He stared at her blankly. "If you say so. Well, if not here, where will we be digging?" At her questioning glance he added, "Thought I'd help out."

  He ignored the annoyed look in her eyes and took the tools, leaving her with the camera bag. "Lead on, McDuff."

  He could almost see her spine straighten. "All right. I guess I could use the help."

  Together they trudged across the meadow and up onto the bottom slope of the canyon, where she stopped at a low, grass-covered rise.

  "Here?"

  "Yep," she answered. "I've been avoiding this spot for weeks, but I guess I can't put it off any longer."

  "Why? What's the deal?"

  "I figure there's another burial under there." She pointed to a barely noticeable oblong of dirt, disguised by a patch of thistles and brambles.

  His gaze took in the innocuous-looking mound. "Seriously?"

  "I just pray the guy's a hundred and fifty years old," she commented wryly. "And Caucasian."

  "Still hoping to find Great-great-granduncle Crawford?"

  "You've been reading my ma
il."

  After RaeAnne had photographed and staked out the new unit, and taken the painstaking measurements needed to place it exactly on the site map, they began working the neat square, her digging and him sifting. It didn't take them more than fifteen minutes to find the skeleton.

  "Damn, I'll never get used to this," he muttered as be watched her carefully remove a spadeful of dirt from around the skull.

  "What's that?"

  "Just digging up a body like this, with no Crime Scene Unit or anything."

  "I'm a professional archaeologist, Roman. It's pretty much the same thing as being a CSI."

  "I suppose. But how do you know this isn't some homicide victim, too?"

  She gave him a long-suffering glance. "I'm trained to know. But if I don't catch it, the lab will. Damn. Looks like there's been some rodent activity."

  "As in rats and mice?" He grimaced as she nodded. "Delightful. How can you tell?"

  "See the disturbance in the soil?" She pointed out an area around one of the shoulder bones, which to him looked exactly the same as the rest of the dirt.

  "Is that bad?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. Rats've been known to completely mix up the bones in a burial, import foreign objects, destroy valuable artifacts. Sometimes they just build their nest in the rib cage and don't touch a thing. I guess we'll find out. Looks like it happened a while ago, though."

  "Thank goodness." He had visions of sifting through rat droppings, and made a face. It was bad enough digging up people.

  "Hmm. That's strange," she murmured, staring at a lump of soft blue stuff that had been exposed.

  "What is it?" he asked, reluctantly bending in closer.

  "Don't worry, just a bit of fabric. Could be a remnant of the buried person's clothes."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "Depends on the situation. Down in the meadow it's so wet, cloth disintegrates fairly quickly. But up here the soil stays much drier." She glanced up, grinning. "This is terrific. That fabric could tell us lots of good stuff, assuming it's not something the rats dragged in. Hopefully we'll find more around the bones which could nail it down as historical."

  He watched as she packed the stuff meticulously in an artifact bag and labeled it with the exact coordinates and a description, along with a reference to the photos she'd taken of it in situ. Jeez, no wonder archaeological excavations could take years.