by Lisa Jackson
Alvarez understood the feeling of utter frustration and hopelessness now, as she witnessed how close Grayson had come to death.
And he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
She touched the rail of his bed, then backed away, her eyes hot, her throat tight, her chin set. She wasn’t one to break down in public, nor, for that matter, in private, and she didn’t intend to start now.
“Thank you,” she said to a nurse who pushed a button behind the sleek desk. As a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked, releasing Alvarez, the RN nodded and offered a small, encouraging smile.
Her chest so tight she could barely breathe, Alvarez walked into the hallway where Rule sat, unread sports magazine on his lap.
“How is he?” Rule asked, his trademark grin absent, his dark eyes filled with concern. A tall African American, Kayan Rule looked as if he’d spent years in the NBA as a power forward and was a head taller than Alvarez.
“Hanging in there.”
“Any prognosis?”
She shook her head, then felt the muscles in the back of her neck tighten as she noticed Manny Douglas stepping off the elevator. There was just something about the reporter that bothered her. Maybe it was his always-smug expression, as if he knew more than you, or the tinted glasses that often shaded his eyes, or maybe he was just one of those reporters who rubbed her the wrong way. Whatever the reason, he was here. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered under her breath. She’d never liked him, never would, and it wasn’t just that he was a member of the press, it was his damned attitude.
“What?” Rule glanced down the hallway, then muttered, “Great.” Rule, it seemed, shared her feelings.
Heading their way in his usual flannel shirt, khakis, and down vest, the reporter for the local newspaper forced a smile as if he’d just come across long-lost friends.
“I’ll handle him,” Rule said, straightening and seeming to grow another two inches.
“Detective!” Manny said. “Any word on the sheriff?”
“Nothing I can talk about,” Alvarez answered. “I’m sure there will be a press conference tomorrow.”
“But I’ve got a deadline tonight and my readers would love to know how the sheriff is doing!” A thin, persistent man with a mouthful of crooked teeth, Manny was a pain in the backside. “Any leads on who attacked him?” Manny had already pulled a mini-recorder from the pocket of his vest.
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
Rule stepped between them. “The hospital’s off-limits, Douglas.”
“I know, but we’ve worked together before.”
Selena wasn’t going to be sweet-talked or bullied. “Not this time, Manny.”
Manny tried again, “But Grayson’s an elected official. His public, the people who put him into office, have the right to know what happened to him and how he’s doing.”
“You heard the detective,” Rule said a little more sternly. “We’re not talking about the sheriff.”
“I can’t tell you any more than what you can get through the hospital patient information desk,” Alvarez added.
Manny hesitated a bit, then shifted gears. “All right,” he said finally. “What can you tell me about Judge Samuels-Piquard?”
Alvarez stopped short. “What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Alvarez repeated, thinking of the tall, athletic woman whose opinions were usually fair, but her sentences harsh. With short red hair and a demeanor that brooked no arguments, she was a big, blowsy woman whose tongue was as sharp as her wit. “You mean, officially? Someone’s filed a report with Missing Persons?” Alvarez clarified, just to make certain the reporter wasn’t on a fishing expedition.
“That’s the word on the street.”
“What street is that?” she said skeptically. For years she’d suspected that Manny had someone on the inside who was giving him information, a leak in the department. “Who said—”
“Uh-uh, don’t even go there.” He held up a hand as if to fend off an attack. “You know I’ll never reveal my sources.”
Rule snorted his disdain and folded his arms over his chest, stretching the shoulders of his uniform, appearing more intimidating than ever.
Selena said to Manny, “Cut it out. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’ve got rights, as does my source.”
“Your source?”
“I’m just relaying what I heard. I thought you could confirm. Obviously not.” He was already backing up, easing toward the bank of elevators. A cynical smile slashed across the stubble on his jaw. “Looks like Grayson isn’t the only one having a bad Christmas.”
Chapter 9
Hattie tossed her keys into her purse, dropped her bag onto the kitchen table, then started down the hallway past the girls’ room where she cracked open the door and saw they both were sleeping soundly, both in mussed twin beds, both with stuffed animals spread over the quilts and onto the floor. Blowing them each a kiss, she closed the door softly and walked to her bedroom on the other side of the hallway.
Her mother had already left, though Zena had come up with dozens of questions Hattie couldn’t answer as she’d reluctantly grabbed her coat from the small front closet.
“I could spend the night,” she’d offered, genuinely concerned. “This is horrid for you, and you could sleep in. Get some rest. I’ll watch the girls in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I can’t. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on, and I’ve got to plan for a dinner party I’m catering this weekend. The twins are already scheduled to spend the day with Rachel and her boys.” Rachel McCallister was a single mother who babysat for extra money and lived only six doors down, in the same complex, so it was handy, and over the years they’d become fast friends.
“It would save you some money,” Zena sniffed, putting up the pretension of an argument as she slid her arms through the sleeves of her coat, then yanked on a pair of red leather gloves.
The cost with you just can’t be counted in dollars, Hattie had thought, because Zena always found a way to extract her fee. “Thanks, we’ll do fine.” Hattie had closed the door behind her mother, then watched as Zena walked to her Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. Her mother had paused to light a cigarette, a practice she thought she hid from everyone, including Hattie and her doctors. Then she had driven off, her taillights winking Christmas red as the big car lumbered out of the lot to the road. Once the Caddie disappeared from view, Hattie had bolted the door and turned off the outside lights.
Now, she went through her nightly ritual, checking on her daughters, turning off the hall light, then walking into her bedroom where she kicked off her shoes a little too hard and one of her heels slammed against the footboard. She thought about Dan and about her life as she flopped onto the bed. Tears surfaced. Again. She’d been fighting a losing battle with them all day, it seemed.
Heart heavy, she felt the weight of guilt settle over her and press down on her lungs until she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. When Bart died, she’d insisted he didn’t kill himself, but only Dan had listened, and even he couldn’t do anything about the ME’s verdict of suicide, even though no note or message of any kind had been found. If Bart had truly taken his own life, she reasoned—and she didn’t want to go there . . . couldn’t most of the time because deep down, she knew she was to blame. She was the one who’d wanted the divorce and had pushed for it, and though she’d promised Bart that he would have joint custody of the twins, sharing the girls had been difficult for everyone. Bart’s depression had grown deeper and deeper and . . . maybe there was something she should have seen or guessed, some warning sign. But if there was, she sure hadn’t picked up on it, other than to know he was angry at her.
She just hadn’t been able to believe that he’d taken his life.
She still couldn’t. Not really.
And now Dan was near death’s door. A tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped it angrily away. S
he’d always been close to Dan, had dated him in high school. When he’d gone to college, they’d agreed to see other people, though Hattie had been brokenhearted, or at least thought she had. Then she’d caught Cade’s eye, and with Dan gone, she’d turned her attention to the bad boy of the clan. Whereas Dan had been a stand-up kind of guy, the responsible brother, Cade was the rebel who spat at authority. She and Cade circled each other for a bit, then dove into a hot affair soon after she graduated. The romance, if you could call it that, fizzled out pretty fast because he had a roving eye and Hattie, in those days, if nothing else, demanded fidelity. She wanted Cade’s heart and a ring, but he couldn’t give either and one day, he just climbed onto his motorcycle and drove off, heading west, she’d heard later, though he didn’t contact her for years. And when he finally did, that had spelled disaster with a capital D.
Now, she bit her lip thinking about him and their always mercurial relationship. They were bad for each other, had always been, never mixing. She’d forced herself to get over him, to turn to the one man who had always loved her, his younger brother Bart, baby of the clan and always a bit of a dreamer.
When Bart asked her to marry him, so soon after Cade had left for the last time, she’d not only said yes, but insisted they elope. He, more traditional, had talked her into a quickie marriage at the ranch, and she’d reluctantly agreed. As long as it was soon.
She remembered her wedding day, of course, but those memories weren’t the kind that a bride should carry with her for the rest of her life. Nine years earlier, she’d stood beneath an arbor that the florists had constructed in the wide yard on the west side of the Grayson farmhouse. The day had been Montana sunny and bright, the sky June blue and cloudless, a summer breeze bending the hollyhock and columbine as it whispered through the pines.
Friends and family, around forty in all, were gathered on the yard where the rented white chairs had been festooned with bouquets of roses, carnations, and baby’s breath, the bouquets trailing long blue and coral ribbons. Each guest had already been given a glass of champagne or sparkling cider to toast the bride and groom as soon as the ceremony ended.
The officiant was someone her mother knew, a short man with rimless glasses and a bald head glistening with sweat. His smile was beatific, his face weathered, as if he’d spent his youth in the sun, a man of the outdoors as well as God.
Facing her, Bart had been clean-shaven, tall and handsome in his black, western-cut suit, his gray eyes focused on her, the hint of a smile teasing his lips. He loved her. She knew that, had known it long before any words had been spoken. And that should be enough. Right.
She was making the smart choice, she’d told herself, over and over again. They were friends. Lovers. And if the lovemaking wasn’t as fiery as she’d hoped, that could change. She would make it change.
Dan was Bart’s best man, and Hattie made certain her own gaze didn’t wander in his direction, not once. There wasn’t a chance of her heart betraying her, not on this, her wedding day, and her sister, standing so closely by her, watching her, made Hattie’s convictions all the stronger.
She was marrying Bart now. He was her world, so she’d stood with her hands linked to his, uttering vows she hoped she would keep. Not looking at Dan, not thinking about Cade, not letting the doubts that had chased her up to this moment catch up to her.
Life would be good.
She vowed to be Bart’s “wedded wife,” for better or worse, in front of God and country, her mother and her sister, Cara, who was Hattie’s matron of honor.
Despite her valiant efforts to believe in the future, the wedding, even at that point, seemed cosmically off-kilter, the ceremony and all the players staged, like pawns on a giant chess board. This is your choice, Hattie, she’d told herself. Don’t think that way. Don’t lose faith. It will work out. Bart’s a good man. An honest man. He’ll be true and faithful and everything you could possibly want, and he is a Grayson.
Oh, God . . .
Her hands were clammy, her heart beating a wild negative tattoo, a warning. This isn’t right. You’re marrying with your head and not your heart. Yes, he loves you, but you know you don’t love him. Not the way he deserves.
In that moment she could feel her face drain of color, but she wouldn’t listen to the arguments in her mind. She couldn’t. Swallowing back any lingering doubts, she told herself that this would be her life. She would be a Grayson, and the love she felt for Bart, if not as deep as she’d felt with Dan or as passionate as it had been with Cade, was strong and vital. She would make this marriage work. She had to.
Because she was pregnant. Just pregnant. She’d found out only two days before and she’d told no one. Not her best friend, not her mother, and certainly not Bart. There would be no shotgun wedding. This was a planned event. So what if the planning had been less than six weeks.
Her cheeks burned at the thought of the life growing inside her and hoped everyone in the small circle of family and friends who had been invited thought that she was just a “blushing bride,” though that was far from the truth and she wasn’t the type.
“. . . it’s my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Grayson,” the officiant had said proudly, and their guests clapped and held their glasses high, pale liquid catching in the light from a lowering sun. Then to Bart, he said, “You may kiss your bride.”
It’s over.
You’re married!
Hattie had closed her eyes and kissed Bart just as the sound of a motorcycle’s engine reached her ears. Her heart beat a little faster, but she told herself she was imagining things, that it didn’t matter, that she was a married woman, that . . . But then Bart’s muscles tightened for a second, and he released her too quickly as the sound of the engine grew louder.
Then she saw it, as they walked down a short makeshift aisle between the chairs, a harsh glint of sunlight bounced off shiny metal. With a roar, the big bike tore up the driveway, spun near the front porch, spraying gravel.
Hattie’s heart did an unexpected and unwanted kick at the sight of Cade finally slowing the Harley and cutting the engine.
“What the hell’s he doing here?” Bart demanded, a muscle working furiously in his jaw.
“He is your brother.”
“Who’s supposed to be in goddamned California!”
Cade yanked off his helmet, left it on the bike, and strolled leisurely toward the crowd, all of whom were staring at the disruption. His hair was longer than Hattie remembered, bleached from the sun, his face tanned, a new scar showing on one cheek. Tall and athletic, like the rest of the Graysons, he swung up the path as if he owned the place, which, she knew, he did, at least partially.
“I’ll take care of this,” Dan said, and Cara’s weak protest of “Dan, just leave it alone,” went unheeded as he started toward his younger brother.
Too late.
Cade, in battered denim and a worn leather jacket, was already through the side gate and striding up the path that ringed the house. At the final row of chairs, where a waiter stood with a tray of champagne glasses, he said, “Ah, don’t tell me I missed the nuptials.” His grin lopsided, his gaze was dark with emotion as it landed squarely on Hattie.
“What’re you doing here?” Dan asked.
“Same as you.” Cade was forced to stop as Dan was blocking his path. “Just here to give the happy couple my best.”
“Bull,” Bart said under his breath. He was still holding Hattie’s hand, his fingers nearly crushing her bones as they tightened.
“Maybe you should leave,” Dan suggested. “Come back later.”
“You’re here, brother,” Cade said with meaning.
Dan held up a hand, hoping to cut off any further remarks from his headstrong brother. “Not now, Cade. It’s not the time.”
“For what?” Cade feigned innocence, but fooled no one, least of all any of his brothers.
Even Zed, never a fan of Hattie’s, stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with Dan. “You don’t want to
do this,” he whispered loud enough for Hattie to hear.
“Do what?” Cade was having none of it.
“It’s over, okay?” Zed said a little more loudly. “They’re married now. Give it up.”
“Nothin’ to give.” Quickly, he stepped around his brothers, but Zed grabbed his arm.
“Cade,” Hattie whispered desperately, all too aware of the curious eyes turned in her direction.
“What?”
Shaking her head, feeling her veil start to fall, she said, “Thank you for coming.”
His jaw slid to the side and for a tense moment there was silence, just the sough of the wind and chatter of birds breaking the quietude. With his gaze still locked to hers, he grabbed a full glass from the tray held by a stunned waiter and lifted it into the air. “Here’s to the bride and groom,” he said. “May they have a long and happy union.” Still eyeing Hattie, he drank the glass down in one long swallow, then tossed his glass to the ground. “Good luck, Hattie,” he added.
At that second, Bart released Hattie’s hand, burst past Zed and Dan, who were blocking his path, and swung wildly, his fist connecting with Cade’s jaw with a crack. Cade’s head snapped back and he reeled away. “You bastard!” Bart spat. “Why can’t you just leave us the fuck alone!”