by Debbie Burke
Even though she was fifty-one years old, Tillman was only the third man she’d ever slept with. Thirty-two good years with Dwight, as solid, dependable, and steady as gravity, until cancer shriveled him.
Then a brief, ill-fated affair with a man who had filled the aching loneliness following Dwight’s death. But his warm, loving façade had been a masquerade to hide his plot of betrayal.
After she’d killed him in self-defense, Tillman had saved her from prison.
And now, she was trying to hammer out a relationship with this volatile lawyer, so different from the easygoing, comfortable trust she’d had with Dwight. Since she and Dwight rarely fought, they hardly ever had make-up sex. With Tillman, it felt like the only variety.
But, more than any other problem between them, she worried about his three troubled teenage children. Would they hate the new woman in their dad’s life? What if she made mistakes that damaged their already-rocky relationship with him?
While they waited for the valet to bring the SUV, Tillman said, “I need to make a quick stop at my office.”
Tawny sighed with relief. Anything to postpone the meeting with his family, even if only for a few minutes.
The office of Rosenbaum, Withers, and Zepruder was several blocks away, convenient to the courthouse and the Yellowstone County Sheriff’s Department. He pulled into the alley and through the rolling chain-link gate that secured the small parking area behind the historic, brick, two-story structure.
Tillman jerked his chin at his partner’s black Jaguar parked in the lot. “Why’s Zepruder still here? He never stays this late on a Friday.” He unlocked the rear door of the building. In the hallway, scarred wood planks squeaked under their steps. He hollered up the steep staircase, “Hey, Steve.”
Steve Zepruder emerged from his second-floor office. At five-seven, standing at the top of the stairs was the only opportunity he’d ever have to look down on Tillman. His handsome face twisted in a scowl. “What the hell are you doing here?” Then he spotted Tawny behind Tillman and his expression transformed to a wide grin, full of teeth. “Hi, Tawny, great to see you again.” His voice took on the silky timbre of an easy-listening radio announcer.
She smiled and nodded. Sometimes she wished she worked for genial, blond, blue-eyed Steve instead of Tillman. Although, she had to admit, lately his temper flared less. Even his office manager, Esther, made the observation that “Atillman the Hun” had mellowed under Tawny’s influence.
Tillman ignored Steve’s question and strode into his office on the first floor at the front of the building.
“Thought you’d be at home,” Steve called after him, “getting ready for the bar mitzvah.”
Since Tillman didn’t reply, Tawny answered for him. “We’re on our way there.”
Steve beckoned to her. “Come on up, Tawny. Got something cool to show you.”
She climbed the steep staircase to his door.
He swept his arm like an orchestra conductor toward his mahogany credenza. On it stood a bronze statue about two feet tall, mounted on a marble base. “Just bought this at an estate auction.”
She moved closer. The statue was of a bucking horse, rear hooves high in the air. Beneath the horse, a cowboy sprawled on the ground, trying to avoid being trampled. The horse’s head was low and the cowboy desperately grasped its ear in a futile gesture to save himself.
She breathed out a soft whistle. “Is that a real Frederic Remington?”
Steve’s chest puffed like a new father. “The Wicked Pony. One of only eight original castings. Rarer than a Republican in the Trial Lawyers Association.”
“Wow.” Tawny had long admired Remington reproductions but had never seen an original up close.
Steve went on: “The story behind this is that Fred witnessed a cowboy getting fatally kicked and based this piece on that incident. Evidently made quite an impression on him.”
Her stomach contracted as she studied the detail. The artist had captured the man’s hopeless desperation in the seconds before his death, frozen forever in time. “Scary but beautiful. This must be worth a fortune. Shouldn’t you have it locked up?”
Steve made an effort to lift it. “Weighs a ton. If a thief can grab this and run, I’m not getting in his way.” He grinned at her.
“Tawny, let’s go.” Tillman’s baritone echoed up the staircase.
Steve nodded toward the call. “His master’s voice.” Sarcasm soured his tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the bar mitzvah, right?”
Tawny swallowed. “Uh, I’m not sure.”
Steve’s blue eyes registered her hesitation. He leaned close. “Everything OK?”
Dammit, why couldn’t she ever keep a poker face? “Yes, fine.” Steve seemed like an understanding man but she wouldn’t confide her problems with Tillman to his partner.
She skipped down the stairs and joined Tillman.
They drove out of downtown into residential streets, the evening air fragrant with flowering crabapple trees, yellow forsythia, and lilacs. To the north, the Rimrocks jutted almost straight up, a long wall of sheer sandstone cliffs studded with massive boulders. Tillman turned at Zimmerman Trail and began the steep, winding climb from the valley floor up to the Rims.
At the top, a broad table of land stretched flat, forming a plateau. She spotted the tower for Logan Airport, where she’d flown into for previous work trips.
As they drove west on Highway 3, drawing closer to Tillman’s house, Tawny’s anxiety twisted her insides. How could he live in the same house with his ex?
Several months before, she’d finally worked up the courage to ask him about his bizarre living situation. He’d shrugged and explained that he’d inherited the house when his mother died and didn’t want to uproot his children from the only home they knew. He’d added, “More convenient than playing kid hockey on alternating days. Besides, the place is big enough, Chell and I can usually avoid running into each other.”
“But,” Tawny had countered, “it seems so…awkward.”
“Hell, yes, it’s awkward. But it’s my sole and separate property. She can’t afford to buy me out and, on her own, she can’t afford a place that’s up to her lofty standards. She doesn’t want to give up the prestige among her colleagues at the college.”
Tawny kept learning more details about Tillman that she couldn’t understand but just had to accept because she’d fallen for him.
Ahead, she spotted the cul-de-sac street where his property sprawled over several acres along the edge of the Rimrocks. Stainless steel gates guarded his driveway. Boulders the size of baby elephants formed a berm across the front, masking the mansion from the street.
He pressed a button on the visor and the gates rolled open, while he tapped a code to unlock the hammered steel mailbox. It was empty. “Dammit,” he muttered. “I told Chell not to snoop in my mail.”
The driveway meandered a quarter of a mile, past a paved area the size of a small used car lot. White canopy tents had been set up, sheltering tables, chairs, and a portable wood dance floor. The tents could easily accommodate the 400 closest friends Tillman had mentioned.
Tawny wondered how much the bar mitzvah celebration was costing him. She was used to being blue-collar broke and still struggled to wrap her head around Tillman’s casual attitude toward wealth.
The mansion came into view, a long, low-slung building with clean lines, stone accents, and thick horizontal wood beams that gave it a vintage Frank Lloyd Wright look. Tillman pressed a different visor button and a double garage door opened on the right end of the house, giving access to his wing. Another double garage balanced the left end, Rochelle’s wing. Apparently, Tawny thought, they couldn’t even bear to park their cars next to each other. How could anyone live like this?
She climbed down from the SUV and walked outside to stretch her legs. The front door of the house opened and Rochelle Rosenbaum appeared.
Tawny smiled and lifted her hand to wave.
The woman’s expression quickly
changed. Rage contorted her lovely, but gaunt, features. She whirled on high heels, enhanced breasts thrust forward, a cloud of dark curls swinging, and stormed back inside. The door slammed, making Tawny jump even from fifty feet away.
Crap, I knew I should’ve stayed at the hotel.
Tillman had already started down a wide staircase to his wing.
Tawny sprinted to catch up with him. “Did you tell Rochelle I was coming?”
He shot a quick glance over his shoulder as he clipped down the steps. “I own this house. I don’t need to ask permission.”
“Tillman! You didn’t tell her.”
His retreating back gave her the answer she dreaded.
She followed him down the stairs into his private quarters, territory she had never entered before.
Her only previous visit to his estate had been almost a year ago, right after he’d hired her. Tawny had reluctantly sat through a strained family dinner in the opulent dining room overlooking the lights of Billings while an undercurrent of tension vibrated the walls of the luxurious mansion.
Tillman had once confided that he felt more at home in Tawny’s house, shabby and old as it was, than he did in his own. The admission tore at her heart and had given her the first hint that his bluster and bad temper were masks to cover the pain of an unhappy family.
Now, she entered his domain, a combined living area and home office that had more square feet than her whole house. He was already sitting in front of a computer on a long desk beneath a bank of windows. Fingers flicked across the keyboard, his focus on the monitor.
Tawny stared out at the staggering view across the city, far to the prairies beyond, and she seethed.
He’d done it again. Twice in the same day, he’d tricked her into a situation she would never voluntarily enter.
She approached him. “Tillman, I’m going home. I’ll walk to the airport if I have to.” Not too daunting a prospect since the airport was only a mile away.
He rolled back the chair and rose, looming over her. He often used his startling height to intimidate opponents. But now his expression looked stricken, not overbearing. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m an asshole. Tomorrow is the most important day in my son’s life. I wanted you with me. And I blew it.”
She said nothing. Sometimes not reacting was the best way to handle him.
He crossed the room. At a weight rack in one corner, he snatched up a barbell that had to weigh ninety pounds. He curled it several times then dropped it on the rack with a loud thud. “Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.” He plucked his key fob from the desk and started for the garage.
She went to him and touched his arm. “I’ll wait here while you have dinner with your family. Afterwards, you can take me to the hotel. Then tomorrow I’ll fly home and you go to the bar mitzvah.” She took both his cool hands in hers and squeezed. “I don’t want to be the cause of even more trouble between your kids and you. Please understand, Tillman.” She kissed his palms.
He wrapped long arms around her, pulling her against him. “How come a woman as sweet as you puts up with an asshole like me?”
She hugged him, fearing their relationship was doomed but loving him anyway. “Go have dinner with your kids.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t last long. Before we sit down, they’ll start checking the time to see how soon they can leave.”
His comment pierced her even though his tone was matter-of-fact and sardonic. He had brought some of his children’s resentment on himself. But she recognized it still hurt him.
After he left the suite, she tried to sidetrack her anguish by exploring. His wing was actually two stories below the street level since the house had been designed to conform to the cliff on which it rested.
One flagstone wall framed a fireplace. Two leather couches formed an L facing a giant TV. Heavy law books with gold-embossed lettering filled built-in wood shelves. A marble counter divided out a mini-kitchen with a refrigerator, espresso machine, and a well-stocked liquor cabinet.
She went to the weight bench in the opposite corner and tried to lift the barbell that Tillman had hefted so casually but she couldn’t budge it. Despite his lean build, his strength continually amazed her, the way he effortlessly held her aloft and moved her to a more enticing position atop him.
That was coming to an end, she thought with regret. She’d miss his body, his sensual touch that still surprised and excited her. But good sex wasn’t enough to build a lasting relationship on. She wanted to trust him but couldn’t.
Double doors led to the bedroom suite. The mattress looked even larger than king-size. At Tawny’s home, Tillman always complained that his feet overhung her queen bed.
His shower was spacious enough for a pickup basketball game with showerheads that mimicked a waterfall. Cleaning the marble and glass would take half a day.
Lord, she could never feel at home here. She couldn’t wait to return to her ninety-year-old Craftsman bungalow with squeaky hardwood floors, furniture with welcoming sags, and the cramped but cozy kitchen.
Her back ached from the long drive. She craved exercise to relieve her stress. But here she was, decked out in a slinky dress and high heels, while her duffel, packed with hiking gear, was still back at the hotel.
Then she remembered the extra pair of sneakers she’d left in Tillman’s SUV. Darkness was still a half hour away, giving her enough time for a walk to stretch out the kinks and settle her turbulent mind.
She prowled through Tillman’s closet until she found a forest-green parka. On him, it would reach his hips. On her, it fell to her knees. Long sleeves flapped loose over her hands.
She went upstairs to the Mercedes in the garage, and changed into her sneakers, leaving the dressy pumps in the back of his car. Ridiculous outfit—a sexy lace dress, a cavernous parka, and running shoes. She didn’t want anyone, especially Rochelle, to see her. She left through a side door and strode away from the house, toward the steep bluffs.
Adjacent to Tillman’s property, a public-access foot trail wound along the edge of the Rimrocks. The sheer cliffs were a popular destination for ambitious rock climbers from all over the world. Although the vistas were jaw-dropping, Tawny’s heart skipped a little on the uneven path. One false step could cause her to jam an ankle into the jumbled boulders. Or worse, plummet hundreds of feet downward. Wild wind currents would blow a cry for help into the vast skies, never to be heard.
She moved away from the ledge and hiked until the sun’s fiery ball flattened on the horizon. The flaming coral sky would have inspired Montana artist Charlie Russell. If only Tillman was beside her to share the moment.
From a jutting point of land, she studied the rear view of his mansion. Its lines blended into the topography. The main floor was at street level. Two wings at either end of the structure stepped down the hillside, like legs bracing the body of the house against the cliff. It was a spectacular monument, larger than life, like its owner.
Despite the tension, Rochelle didn’t want to move out. Tawny pitied a woman so obsessed with appearances that she would rather endure ongoing misery than give up her status.
Across the tree-studded lawn, at the far end of the property, Tawny spotted a two-story playhouse with dormer windows. She recalled Tillman telling her about the childhood refuge where he’d done homework away from the screaming of his own parents. His daughters had played there when they were younger but had now outgrown it.
Tawny hiked toward the little building. Unlike the scrap lumber forts her son had built, this playhouse was sturdy with cedar siding and high-quality door and window trim.
Yips of coyotes reverberated against the sheer, rocky hillsides.
Movement across a canyon caught Tawny’s eye. At the dead end of another cul-de-sac stood a Spanish-style McMansion. On a third-story balcony, a man held a rifle to his shoulder. For a second, it appeared to point directly at her. She jumped back, crouching behind the playhouse. What kind of idiot aimed toward homes?
She pee
red around the corner. A green dot of light moved back and forth with the rifle barrel. A laser sight. A moment later, the man ducked inside.
Tawny realized, from that vantage point across the ravine, there was a nearly unobstructed view of Tillman’s home. Someone could observe the comings and goings of cars in the driveway, as well as look into the rear windows.
Someone with a rifle was watching Tillman. Who? What kind of danger was he in?
Many of his cases were high-profile fights for clients whose assets had been seized by the government. “It’s all about the money,” he frequently said. “Every forfeiture of private jets, vehicles, and real estate means cops score a bundle to buy themselves the latest equipment. Policing for Profit. They don’t like it when I interfere with their gravy train.”
Could an enemy from law enforcement be watching him?
She spotted numerous security cameras slowly panning the perimeter of his property. If someone trespassed, he would know. Still, she made a mental note to tell him of the apparent surveillance from the house across the canyon.
A chill settled in the dusk. She hugged Tillman’s coat tighter and turned the door knob of the playhouse to enter the sanctuary of his boyhood.
Inside, the ceiling was only six feet high. Tillman couldn’t fit in the little building any longer. She hunched to avoid low beams. Grit ground under her sneakers on the wood floor. Twilight filtered through cobwebby windows, casting shadows around the room. As her eyes adjusted, she made out two chairs and a table. On one wall, an old-fashioned rotary-dial phone was mounted, thick with dust.
She pictured a young Tillman, lying on the threadbare loveseat with his long legs hanging over the end, sunlight streaming through the glass as he studied. It must have been a peaceful place to temporarily escape his raging parents.
A staircase led to a second level. She ascended and poked her head through the opening to find a loft about half the size of the main room.
Something thumped.
She recoiled, cracking her head on a beam. “Who’s there?”
A scuffling noise. Mice?