by Lisa Jackson
“My guilt?” Of course there was more than a modicum of truth in his charges, yet she was horrified that he believed her to be such a phony. “I don’t feel guilty about—”
“Like hell you don’t!” he thundered, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t make excuses, Hattie. It belittles us both. You and me and Cade, and probably even Dan, know what finally pushed Bart over the edge. It was you and Cade. He knew about the two of you. Even questioned the paternity of his own daughters. Can you imagine?”
She felt as if a knife had been thrust into her heart and then twisted, oh so slowly.
“Oh, Zed, I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? Didn’t sleep with Cade right before your wedding? Didn’t conjure up some romantic fantasies about Dan, once Bart was out of the way and Cade unavailable? Or is it you just didn’t mean to be such a slut when it comes to all my brothers?”
He glared at her with such intensity that for the smallest second she wondered if he were jealous that she’d never had any interest in him.
“Well . . . I asked you what I did, but I really didn’t expect to have my character annihilated right here on the porch this morning.” Her own temper had sparked and she couldn’t help but add, “And who’re you to judge? You’ve had your share of women, some of them married, always one on the side.”
“I never banged one sister while engaged to another.”
She drew a breath. She wanted to haul off and slap him, but instead, backed up a step, her gloved hands tightening into hard, furious fists.
“We’re not talkin’ about me, Hattie.”
“I came here to . . . bury the hatchet. To try and make some peace with you and Cade and now, at least with you, I see it was a mistake.”
“You got that right.” Zed pointed a finger right at her chest. He whistled to the dog and Shad slunk past his legs to the warm interior of the house. “You asked what it was you did that pissed me off. Let’s just make something clear, okay? It wasn’t what you did, Hattie, it’s who you are.”
Chapter 21
Leaving the door of her office ajar, Pescoli hung her jacket on the hook near her file cabinet. She’d been fighting a headache all day, but the pain at the base of her skull had eased up a bit after lunch, which was a good thing. A damned good thing. She didn’t have time to deal with a migraine, not now anyway.
Kicking out her desk chair, she sat down, her eyes already on the computer screen. She heard shouts in the hallway as one of the deputies led a suspect toward an interrogation room. The guy was handcuffed and shackled, his chains rattling. Pescoli cast a glance in his direction. Shaved head, curled upper lip, fury flaring in eyes set deep in his head; he was twitching a bit, too, probably higher than a kite, the smell of smoke clinging to him filtered into her room as he passed.
“I didn’t do nothin’!” he was arguing, angry at the world, and especially Deputy Kayan Rule, who was guiding him past Pescoli’s door toward a back hallway. “You can’t do this to me, man! I want a fuckin’ attorney. You hear that? I got rights!”
Rule said something back, but Pescoli didn’t hear it. Whatever he’d muttered was effective as the scumbag immediately clammed up.
“Good,” she said aloud as she refocused on her computer screen.
As for all of Alvarez’s personal questions and quick-fix solutions to her personal problems, they were probably spot-on, irritating as that was. Though, of course, she hadn’t been completely honest with Alvarez, hadn’t copped to the fact that her nights were filled with weird, dark dreams that kept sleep at bay. Nor did she admit that sometimes she felt as if unseen eyes were watching her. She’d never been paranoid, had always been fearless, too much so, she’d been told. But lately she’d thought someone was watching her.
Just the other night, as she’d walked to her Jeep and unlocked the door, here, at the station, under the security lamps, she’d felt as if her every move were being observed, and her skin had literally crawled. She’d been alone in the lot, the wind cold and biting when she’d experienced the sensation that someone was watching, possibly targeting her. Adrenaline pumping, she’d looked over her shoulder, surveyed the lot that had been scraped free of snow. Several vehicles shone under the bluish glare of the tall lamps. It had been eerily quiet, no traffic on the side street, no cops heading to their vehicles or pausing for a smoke on the way home. She’d been totally alone, and she’d seen no dark figure hiding in the shadows, no suspicious person scuttling out of sight, no assassin sighting a rifle at her. She’d thought for a fleeting second about Claudia Dubois’s assertions that someone had been watching the judge’s home from the park, a man in winter camouflage. Her throat had turned to dust, her nerves stretched thin as she’d unlocked the Jeep and double-checked the backseat and cargo space, all the while feeling like a moron—a scared-spitless moron.
She’d told herself to get a grip and noticed her hands were shaking a little, her craving for a cigarette intense, though she hadn’t given in, probably because she refused to buy a new pack.
The job was getting to her. As was the stress of the holidays.
No way would she admit the fact that she was suddenly a little nervous, that she’d actually reached for her sidearm . . . just in case.
No doubt Alvarez, if she had an inkling about Pescoli’s night terrors, would either psychoanalyze her partner herself or send her straight to a psychiatrist’s couch.
There was no reason for that, Pescoli decided, as she scanned her e-mail, hoping for something, a tip or piece of evidence that would help break open the case. As she sorted through her virtual in-box, she had to admit, at least to herself, that Alvarez had been right on several counts. She, as a mother, had to let Jeremy go, to make his own way and deal with his mistakes. Conversely, she needed to keep a closer eye on her daughter and try to find out what was going on in Bianca’s brain that skewed her perception of herself. Unfortunately, some of the bad self-esteem came directly from Michelle encouraging her to “get fit” or “trim down” or however she phrased it as she handed Bianca a bikini meant for a twelve-year-old.
Muttering under her breath, she decided she’d have a chat with her ex and his petite little wife. It was irritating as hell to know that Michelle really wasn’t all that stupid, despite her on-and-off-again ditzy-blonde act. In Pescoli’s opinion, her ex’s wife was far more cunning and sly than she acted. And she seemed to have a twisted idea of what a woman should be. That was all well and good, except when that ridiculous notion started messing with Bianca’s self-esteem.
Lastly, there was Santana.
She loved him.
There wasn’t a second’s hesitation on her part to admit it, and she did want to live with him. It was just the marriage part that worried her and that, she understood, was her problem. The plain truth was she wanted to marry him, so she’d just have to pack her fear of the rite away and bury it.
To hell with the consequences.
Life was an adventure.
There were no guarantees.
She gritted her teeth. She had some major steps to take once she was home. For now, though, she needed to concentrate on finding the son of a bitch who put two bullets into Grayson and killed Judge Samuels-Piquard. Unfortunately, nothing in today’s batch of e-mails helped.
So much for burying the hatchet, Hattie thought as she left the ranch house. Hands buried deep in her pockets, purse slung over her shoulder, she followed large boot prints toward the outbuildings. Zed had made it pretty damned clear how he felt about her, and there was no arguing the matter, not that she cared to. For as much as Zed despised her, the feeling was mutual. She’d always thought he was the weakest of the clan, a self-absorbed, silent man who, she suspected, had more than a few dark secrets of his own.
Not that it mattered.
What Zed thought was neither here nor there.
Not so with Cade.
Another gust of wind kicked through the buildings, shrieking long and low before dying to silence again. A few flakes of sno
w drifted from the leaden sky that stretched over the surrounding peaks. She’d always loved it out here, had once considered it her home.
Obviously Zed disagreed with that particular fantasy.
It, no doubt, really chapped his hide that she, as the girls’ guardian, owned a quarter of the ranch. They’d worked out an arrangement when Bart had died, and any net income from the ranch was placed into an account for Mallory and McKenzie at the first of every year. She never touched the money, only thought of it when the bank sent her electronic statements every quarter.
As she cut between the pump house and grain silo, she spied a light burning in the window of the machine shed. Her insides tightened a bit and she wondered if she should have called first, warned Cade that she wanted to clear the air. But then she might have lost her nerve and she really needed to talk to him. Face-to-face.
Nearing the long building, she heard a steady clanging emanating from within. “Courage, Hattie,” she whispered to herself as she ducked beneath long, toothlike icicles that hung from the eaves and pushed open a wide door that slid on creaking rollers.
As soon as there was enough space for her to squeeze through, she stepped inside the cavernous shed where a tractor, combine, and disc harrow resided along with hitches, trailers, and other machines she didn’t immediately recognize. As she made her way along a narrow aisle behind the machinery, the smells of dust and oil filled her nostrils. Beneath it all, she detected the scent of diesel. “Hello?” she called, shivering a bit as the shed, if it was heated, was still cold enough that her breath fogged. “Cade?”
“Hey!” His voice echoed from the length of the shed and she followed the sound to find him standing on a step stool, leaning under the open hood of a large tractor. His hair fell over his forehead, and his sleeves were pushed up over his elbows. Grease blackened his hands and forearms, and streaked jeans that were nearly threadbare and spattered with paint.
“Trouble?” she asked as he straightened and tossed his hair from his eyes.
“Nah.” Grabbing a rag from the back pocket of his jeans, he climbed down the steps, wiping his fingers. “Maintenance.” His smile was a crooked slash and a streak of black was visible on his jaw. “Don’t let anyone kid you, it’s not ‘yearly’ maintenance.” He hopped off the ladder, still cleaning the grease from his hands. “It’s ‘all-year’ maintenance.”
“Ah . . .” As he closed the gap between them, she felt a second’s hesitation.
“What’s up?”
Here we go. “I came looking for you and Zed said you were out here. He, uh, wasn’t very glad to see me and let me know just how he feels.”
“Zed can be blunt.”
“That’s one way to say it,” she said, then waved off any further discussion about his oldest brother. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, not really; I came out here to clear the air and hoped that we could find a way to get along.”
“Aren’t we?”
“Come on, Cade. We’ve never really gotten along.”
He hesitated. “So, why now, Hattie?”
“I thought we needed to talk,” she started, wondering why her well-rehearsed lines had left her. “It’s the girls. When they saw you on the street the other day, when we were going to Wild Wills, they were really disappointed that you didn’t join us.” He started to explain, but she held out a hand to stop him. “That’s just part of it. Ever since Bart died, they’ve been searching for a father figure, I guess, and Dan’s tried his best to fill those shoes, at least as well as he could.”
“And now you expect me to . . . what? Take up where Dan left off?”
“No.” Wincing inside, she shook her head, as if denying what she was about to admit. “Listen, I’m sorry. This is coming out all wrong. I probably should wait to tell you, but I’ve waited so long, so, so long already, and now Zed has accused me and . . . Oh, God.”
She was withering inside, her confidence leaking away.
“Hattie?” He grabbed her arm, as if to steady her, and she closed her eyes. What a mess she’d made of things, of her life, of Bart’s. “What?” he asked. When she opened her eyes, she found his face close to hers, his breath warm, his pupils dark, his expression clouded with concern. “Zed accused you of what?”
Mother of God, she was such a coward, such a foolish, deep-seated coward. “It’s complicated,” she said, aware of the tense fingers clamped over her upper arm.
“Then you’d better uncomplicate it.”
The world seemed to shift at that moment as dozens of memories cut through her brain, memories of hot sex, warm winds, and cool water against her skin as she swam naked in the pond. With Cade. Beneath the wide Montana skies, smelling new grass and . . .
“Hattie?”
She blinked. Told herself to quit being a wimp. Felt sweat drip down her spine though it was cold as hell in the machine shed. Cade came back into too sharp of focus again. “Okay,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own. “There’s just no way to say this any easier or more succinctly.” She drew in a long breath and finally admitted, “The truth of the matter is that Bart wasn’t the girls’ biological father, Cade.” His eyes, so close, darkened, and his jaw slid to one side. Slowly, the fingers grasping her uncoiled. Mixed emotions crossed his face. Disgust. Anger. And guilt. He knew! Damn it, he’s known all along. Or at the very least suspected the truth.
The seconds stretched between them as he stared at her. “Say it, Hattie,” he insisted, his voice low, nearly menacing.
“I want you to actually say the words.”
“Don’t you blame me, Cade. You’re in this with me, but, yes, you’re the twins’ father. That last time we were together.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t you? I see it in your eyes. You’ve probably suspected all along, so don’t start pointing fingers. We were both adults, both knew what we were doing.”
“You were engaged,” he charged.
“That’s right. To your brother.”
He took a step backward, distancing himself. “Shitfire, Hattie, how could you—”
“We, Cade. You and me. We made those babies. How could we?”
“But you passed them off as Bart’s.” His face contorted in disbelief, his scar showing white, the dark smudge of grease more visible against his suddenly very pale skin.
“Bart knew.”
“What? He knew? Jesus H. Christ, Hattie. You both knew and you kept it a secret.”
“No, no, no!” She was shaking her head, furious with herself for not being clear in the beginning. “He found out when I did, and that was long after the twins were born. In the beginning, neither of us guessed that the girls weren’t his, not really, though I knew it was a possibility. But it wasn’t until we tried to have another baby, not too long after the girls were born. I wasn’t for it; Lord, we already had two. Twins. I had my hands full. But Bart insisted. He wanted a son too. The girls weren’t enough for him, and then we started trying just before the girls turned one, I think. One month went by, then two, finally six or seven, and it seemed odd as the twins had been so easy to conceive.”
He was listening, not saying a word, just staring at her. The only sound was the wind outside as it rattled around the corners of the building.
“So,” she said, her voice still barely audible. “Sometime just before the girls’ second birthday, we went through a series of fertility tests and found out that he couldn’t . . . father children.”
“He was sterile?” Cade said. “Is that what you’re expecting me to believe?”
“Yes.”
“You could be just making this up now.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, convenience. To try and rope me in.”
“Trust me, this isn’t the way I would go at it if I was trying to ‘rope you in.’ ”
“You waltz in here and make this kind of announcement, that I’m a father and I’m supposed to just accept it?” he demanded, color
returning to his face. “Would you?”
“You’re rejecting the girls?”
“No, damn it, I’m rejecting what you’re saying. For the love of God, Hattie, this is a pretty damned good jolt.”
“You’ve suspected all along, but I knew you’d fight me,” she said. “Even though it’s obvious the girls are Graysons. So, I brought some of our old medical records.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I suppose so.” Reaching into her purse, she withdrew an envelope and set it on the fender of a flatbed trailer.
“What is this?” he asked, ignoring the thick white packet. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she said succinctly, trying to keep her anger in check. You started this, Hattie! Remember? You knew it wasn’t going to turn out all sweetness and light. “I just thought it was time you knew the truth. We’ve had a big jolt this week, were reminded how short life really is. I thought you’d want to know.”
“About nine years too late,” he growled. “For the love of Christ, Hattie, even if this is true—”
“It is. Do you honestly think I would leave my kids with Zena and drive out here as part of some kind of scam?” She sighed and looked away from the shock on his face. “I honestly thought you knew me better than that.”
“Seems I don’t know you at all.” She looked back at him to find him scrutinizing her. “So you’re trying to tell me that now, finally, you’ve had a change of heart, that you’re . . . I don’t know, doing something altruistic by letting me know that I’m the father of eight-year-old twins I thought were my brother’s.”