by Joanna Wayne
“We were in the same grade. We became better friends when he came back to Texas to go to college.” Sylvia swerved to avoid a rut in the worn path she was driving. “We were never anything more, though, in case you were wondering. Too much alike, I think, to be more than buddies.”
“Then you went to the same college?”
“Yes, the University of Texas. Matt stayed and got his degree. I dropped out after my sophomore year and spent some time finding myself, so to speak, before I went back and picked up a few degrees.”
“Sounds like you did a good job of finding yourself.”
They made a sharp turn to the right along a fence line. Heather felt the first tinge of alarm as they approached a narrow bridge without any sign of side rails. One wrong move and they’d plunge into the water below. “Don’t tell me we’re going to drive across that thing,” she protested.
“Relax, it’s been here for as long as I can remember. The hands use it all the time to move equipment a lot heavier than my little Jeep.” Sylvia barely slowed as they hit the bumpy wooden ties.
Heather held her breath, crossing her fingers for luck. She wouldn’t have trusted the structure to support a small dog, but somehow they made it to the other side and level ground.
Sylvia drove a few yards farther, swerved right and then stopped.
“This doesn’t look like the stables.”
“No, it’s the family cemetery. I’d like to stop for a minute, if that’s okay with you. Today would have been my mother’s birthday.”
“No problem. I’ll wait in the car.”
“Get out and look around. You might find some of the stones interesting, and I won’t be long.”
Heather followed Sylvia through the gate. Sylvia was right. The names and dates on the tombstones told their own stories, mostly of hard lives that took people before their time.
Carrie McCullough, born June 1, 1861, died August 8, 1862. Our precious baby girl.”
Jack McCullough, born April 14, 1898, died December 16, 1944.
Billy Roy Lassiter.
Heather studied the tombstone. Billy Roy Lassiter would have been about the same age as Kathy Warren and he’d died the same month of the same year. The day of the month was missing. Heather read and reread the strange inscription.
Killed at the hands of his fellow man.
“Did you find something interesting?” Sylvia asked, walking up behind her.
“As a matter of fact I did. Do you know anything about Billy Roy Lassiter’s death?”
Sylvia ground a toe into the ground, staring at her boot as if it were worthy of deep study. “I know he was murdered.” She raised her head, her gaze finally connecting with Heather’s. “And I know some folks think Jake McQuaid’s responsible.”
A cottony lump caught in Heather’s throat. Digging up buried truths. Matt had warned her about that. Maybe he had always been afraid the truths she uncovered would rock and sink his own world.
“That’s a pretty serious accusation.”
“I’m not accusing, just stating a fact.” Sylvia started walking again, and Heather followed her, feet dragging, her emotions churning.
“The crime was conveniently never solved.” Sylvia bit at her lower lip. “Did Matt tell you about the woman he and his brothers found beaten and left for dead?”
“Yes. Susan Hathaway.”
“Some folks think Jake McQuaid beat and killed Billy Roy in retaliation for what happened to Susan. My mother was one of those people.”
Heather’s mind fought for reason. “How would you know this? You were no more than a child at the time.”
Sadness drew the corners of Sylvia’s eyes into deep grooves. “I know because I heard my mother and Logan arguing the day after the man’s body was found. They thought I was asleep, but my mother’s screaming woke me. She accused Logan of helping Jake kill Billy Roy.”
“And then what happened?”
“Nothing. My mother died a few months later when her horse threw her. She was an excellent rider, but something spooked her mount, and he reared back, throwing her to the ground in front of him. His front feet caught her before she could roll away. At least that’s the way it looked when one of the wranglers found her body.”
“I’m sorry.” The words snagged painfully in Heather’s throat, the hurt as much for herself as it was for Sylvia—and for Matt, and everyone else who’d ever lost a mother.
“It’s okay. It happened a long time ago, and I’ve dealt with it and let it go. It’s the good memories I try to hold on to now.”
“Have you ever mentioned this to Matt?”
“No. I didn’t want him to quit being my friend when we were youngsters. And, to tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought of Billy Roy Lassiter for years, not until you called his name.”
Heather started back to the car, and then jerked to a stop. Something had moved in the distance. She’d caught a glimpse of it in her peripheral vision. A quick darting. Perhaps a bird, a jackrabbit, a deer.
It was the events of the past few days that had her jumping out of her skin at every movement. That and the fact that she and Sylvia were in an isolated cemetery, so far away that no one would hear them if they cried for help.
She stared into a patch of thorny, head-high brush standing between them and a ragged persimmon tree. This time the darting movement was clear and unmistakable. Someone was out there, watching them, like a coyote waiting for his moment to spring on the helpless prey.
The hair on her neck stood on end. “Sylvia.” Her voice was soft, meant not to carry beyond their immediate surroundings.
Sylvia eyed her suspiciously “What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”
“No, but I think there’s someone in the bushes watching us.”
“No one would be out here without a horse or a car. We’re too far from the house.”
The taste of fear settled like acid in Heather’s stomach. She could feel a man’s hands on her, feel a fist plowing into her face, almost as real as it had been the other night in her car. “Let’s just get to the Jeep, fast.”
The urgency in her voice must have gotten through to Sylvia. Both of them broke into a run, not slowing until they’d reached the Jeep. Sylvia’s hand shook as she poked her key at the ignition, scraping metal before sliding into the hole. The engine sputtered and died, and Heather swallowed the curse that tore at her throat.
Sylvia didn’t bother. “Damn! What a time for car trouble. Look again, Heather, see if you really see someone.”
She didn’t get the chance. This time the noise was from the west, and there was no mistaking the approaching horse and rider. Sylvia quit turning the key.
The cowboy tipped his hat. “You ladies lost?”
“No. I never get lost on my own land, but we could use your help. Heather thought she saw a man watching us from those bushes over there.” She pointed.
The cowboy pulled on the reins, making a full circle with his horse, his gaze scanning the surrounding area before turning back to them. “More likely a momma cow making sure you’re not out here to bother her calf, but I’ll ride over and check out the scrub.”
Sylvia turned the key, and this time the engine purred .to life. “Are you ready to go to the stables, Heather?”
“I’d rather go back to the house. I promised Matt I wouldn’t be too long.”
“Then back to the house it is.” She inched the jeep forward, then stalled as the cowboy rode back in their direction, smiling broadly.
“I scared up a bevy of quail. No sign of anything else.” A broad grin cracked his lips.
“I guess I was mistaken,” Heather said, sure she hadn’t been, but afraid to push the issue with a man she knew nothing about. She was dwelling in a world of strangers where the unexpected was all she could count on. A world where secrets were deadly, and where the only man she trusted was a man she might be about to destroy.
The thought tore at her heart. Matt
might bear grudges against his father, but that was a long way from believing he was a murderer. She could almost see the headlines now: Texas Ranger Arrests Own Father for Twenty-five-year-old Murder.
And all because a woman named Kathy Warren had passed through this town one dark night years ago.
And because Heather had fallen into Matt’s life. A stroke of luck for her, but it might turn into a heartbreaking stroke of tragedy for him. And the last thing she wanted to do was bring pain to Matt McQuaid.
The Jeep bounced and rocked as Sylvia lowered her foot on the accelerator. “Will you tell Matt what we talked about today?”
“I don’t have a choice, not since Ariana’s been murdered. The killing has to stop somewhere.”
“No, I guess you don’t. I hope he understands why I had to tell you about his father.” Sylvia hit the accelerator a little harder. “For what it’s worth, I hope I’m wrong about Jake.”
“So do I, Sylvia. So do I.”
HEATHER WAITED until they were in the truck before mentioning her trip to the cemetery and sharing the information about Billy Roy Lassiter’s grave. She avoided mentioning Sylvia’s suspicions that Jake McQuaid might be involved in his death. Somehow the short ride to Ridgely’s store didn’t seem the opportune time to suggest Matt’s father might be a murderer.
Just as well the topic hadn’t been approached, Heather decided, sliding her right foot into the boot that Ridgely’s wife had pulled from the shelf. Matt was already distracted and agitated after his talk with Logan, a talk he claimed had gotten him nowhere.
“Tug hard on those pull tabs to make sure your feet are all the way in,” Matt instructed. “Then walk around in them. The leather should ride the top of your feet, but not cut into them.”
She followed his instructions, pulling up on her jeans as she walked to get a better look at the plain black leather boots that Matt referred to as ropers. Her toes rocked against the new leather, and her heels settled against the solid backs.
“They’re not as comfortable as my tennis shoes, but I think they fit.”
“Hmmmpf.” Paul’s wife stuck her hands on her ample hips. “Boots aren’t meant for walking or comfort. They’re for riding horses. Or else they’re for show.” She lifted her ankle-length full skirt so that Matt and Heather could capture the full effect of the fancy boots she wore. “Aren’t these a pair of doozies? I just got them in today.”
“Very nice,” Heather admitted, “but not quite what I need at the Lone M.”
“No, these beauties are for prancing and dancing, and I plan to wear them half out at Logan Trenton’s big blowout. Paul Ridgely hasn’t taken me dancing in a month of Sundays. I’ll be making him pay for that tomorrow night.”
“What are you wearing besides the gorgeous boots?” Heather asked, drawn into Mrs. Ridgely’s excitement in spite of herself.
“A full skirt, flowered, and an embroidered blouse. It makes me look even fatter than usual, but I don’t care. I like a skirt twirling about my legs when I dance.”
“You’re far from fat.”
“Not nearly as far as I was at your age. But it’s fine with me and fine with Paul, and we’re the only ones who matter. He says he likes a woman he can hold on to.” Her easy laughter rippled through the small shop.
Heather made another circle around the stool and then paused in front of a floor mirror. “This will be my first pair of Western boots.”
“Then you better be careful, Matt.” Mrs. Ridgely gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Nothing gets in a woman’s blood faster than Western boots and Texas cowboys.”
Heather turned to hide the blush that heated her cheeks.
“You know,” Mrs. Ridgely said, walking over to stand in front of her. “I just got in an outfit that would look terrific on you, make you look like a real Texas gal. Come on over and take a look.”
“Let me take these boots off first.” Heather dropped back onto the low stool. She slid her hands under the tops and shoved.
“That’s not exactly how you do that.” Matt knelt in front of her. “Let me help.”
One hand grasped the leather just below her ankle, one caught her leg above the boot line. The crazy sensation attacked her again, hot and sweet, rolling inside her and making her dizzy with unexpected desire. His gaze caught hers and held, invisible steam rising between them, stealing her breath away. The boot clunked to the floor beneath her foot. Matt backed away, flushed and fumbling. “You can get the other one,” he said. “Now that you know how.”
His voice was gravelly and unsteady. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked away, not stopping until he reached the far back corner of the store and a circle of men.
Mrs. Ridgely stared at Matt’s back and then at Heather, no doubt noticing the flush in her cheeks. She smiled and nodded. “So, the rough, tough son of Jake McQuaid isn’t a robot lawman without a heart after all. And you, Heather Lombardi, must be some woman to make him show it. Many a girl around here’s tried without a smidgen of luck.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“You might be a nice lady, but you’re lying through your teeth right now. Come on over here and try on that outfit I was telling you about. You might as well go all the way and brand him while he’s weak and willing.”
Heather followed Mrs. Ridgely across the shop, but she knew something the friendly woman didn’t. There was nothing weak about Matt McQuaid.
THE SOFT SQUEAKING of the porch swing worked like a lullaby, and Heather’s eyelids drooped until only a slit of afternoon sunlight filtered through. Matt had gotten back to the ranch about fifteen minutes ago, after being gone all afternoon. He’d left her guarded by the deputy while he went back into town.
But his beeper had been buzzing as he walked up the steps, and he’d been on the phone with Gabby ever since. She’d had no opportunity to speak of Sylvia’s accusation against Jake McQuaid. And until she did, she couldn’t get a minute’s peace.
She looked up as the front door creaked open. “What was Gabby’s problem?” she asked, moving over to make room for him on the swing beside her. Instead he settled on the top step and leaned against the porch column.
“He collected some prints from the car we found deserted on the highway, but he doesn’t have a name as yet. They’re running a fingerprint scan up at headquarters as we speak.”
“Are there any leads in Ariana’s death?”
“Nothing new. But at least we’ve had another crime-free day in Dry Creek. No bodies. No attacks. No threats.” Matt set his hat on the porch beside him and stretched out, his long legs reaching all the way across the top step.
“And no clue as to what happened to the missing records?”
“Not unless you buy Logan’s speculation that Gabby let rats get into them in that attic above his office and then threw the damaged files away.”
“Evidently you don’t believe that theory.”
“Seems strange the rats would choose the exact records I’m looking for, especially if we’re talking about four-legged rats.”
Heather ran her fingers up and down the linked chain that held the swing. “Matt, I need to talk to you.”
“I thought we were talking.”
She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “Sylvia mentioned something today that I think you should know about.”
The phone rang, and Matt started to get up from the step.
“I’ll get it,” Heather said, beating him to the draw. She couldn’t sit on the porch and wait in silence now that she’d broached the subject with Matt. Better to be the one doing something.
She caught the phone on the third ring. “Hello.”
“I need to talk to Matty. Is he there?”
Matty. The name was spoken like an endearment, but the female voice was shrouded in concern. Heather trembled, suddenly ill at ease and shaky. “Matt’s here. I’ll get him for you. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Susan Hathaway. I need to talk to him about his father.” She hesit
ated. “But don’t tell him that.”
“No, I won’t.” Anxiety was playing havoc with Heather’s nerves as she handed Matt the phone.
Chapter Twelve
Matt took the phone from Susan. “Matt McQuaid.”
“Matty. It’s Susan.”
His fingers tightened around the receiver. “Is something wrong?”
“No, I wanted to hear your voice, to find out how you’re doing. It’s been so long since you’ve called.”
“Yeah. I’ve been busy.” The lie was bitter on his tongue. Not that he hadn’t been busy, but it had little to do with the fact that he hadn’t called. “How are you?”
“Older, slower. A few more wrinkles. Other than that I’m the same.”
He tried to imagine Susan as old, but he could only ever picture her as the young woman he and his brothers had found in the ditch. The beautiful lady who’d moved into their lives like an angel dropped from the sky. He’d never see her any other way.
“Have you talked to Cy or Cameron lately?”
“They’re both well, absorbed in their own families and careers, but they drop by when they can. They’d love to see you.” Her voice shook slightly. “We all would.”
All. She meant his father, of course, though they both knew that wasn’t true. Matt had been a thorn in his father’s side for as long as he could remember, a reminder of the wife Jake had needed, but never loved.
But Susan would always stand by and defend Jake McQuaid. She didn’t need vows or legalities to be faithful and loyal. It was who she was.
“How is Jake?”
“Not as well as he should be. The doctor’s warned him to take it easy, to watch his blood pressure. He doesn’t listen to him or to me.”
“That’s Jake.”
“That’s your father. He’ll turn sixty-five in two weeks.”
“I’m sure you’re planning a party. Wish him all the best for me.”
“You need to do that yourself, Matt. I want you to come home for his birthday.”
“I can’t.” He swallowed, his throat drier than south Texas earth. “I’m in the middle of a case.”