by Nora Roberts
“I think that would come under the heading of my personal business, Rowan. What’s your problem here?”
“My problem, other than the kissing, holding and so on in front of God, crew and visitors, is I came over here because I needed to talk to my father, but you’re obviously too busy with Principal Hotpants to spare any for me.”
“Watch it.” His fingers tightened on hers before she could jerk away. “Don’t you use that tone with me. I don’t give a damn how old you are. If you need to talk to me, come inside. We’ll talk.”
“No, thanks,” she said, coldly polite. “Go ahead and take care of your personal business. I’ll take care of my own. Excuse me.” She pulled her fingers free. “I have to get back to base.”
She recognized the combination of anger and disappointment on his face, something rarely seen and instantly understood. She swung away from it, strode away from him, her back stiff with resentment. And her heart aching with what she told herself was betrayal.
Her temper only built on the walk back, then took a bitter spike when she heard the siren blast. She broke into a run, covering the remaining distance to the base where she could already see jumpers on the scramble and the jump plane taxiing onto the runway.
She hit the ready room, shoving aside the bitterness as she had the stress—as something to be taken out and examined later.
She grabbed gear off the speed rack for Cards. “Payette?”
“That’s the one.” He zipped his let-down rope into the proper pocket. “Zulies to the rescue!”
She looked in his eyes. “Have a good one.”
“It’s in the cards.” He let out a chortle before waddling toward the waiting plane.
She went through the same procedure with Trigger while Gull helped Dobie.
In minutes she stood watching the plane take off without her.
“Secondary blaze blew up,” Gull told her. “Idaho’s already spread thin. One of their second load got hung up on the jump, broke his arm, and they’ve got two more injuries on the ground.”
“Aren’t you well informed?”
“I like to keep up with current events.” He re-angled his ball cap to gain more shade from the bill as he followed the plane into the sky. “Such as the dry lightning doing a smackdown up in Flathead. You didn’t spend much time at your dad’s.”
“Are you keeping track of me?”
“Just using my keen powers of observation. They also tell me you’re severely pissed.”
“I don’t like being grounded when I’m fit to jump.”
“You’re on the list,” he reminded her. “And?”
“And, what?”
“And what else has you severely pissed?”
“You and your keen powers of observation are about to, so aim them elsewhere.” She started to stalk off, then, too riled to hold it in, stalked back. “I go up to see my father, spend some time with him, talk this crap over with him because that’s what we do. When I get there he’s doing an AFF with a student. A student who happens to be a woman. A redhead. One who, the minute they’re on the ground, jumps him like my old dog Butch used to jump a Frisbee. Then he’s swinging her around, and then he’s kissing her. Kissing her, right there, a serious lip-locking, body-twining kiss no doubt involving tongues.”
“The best do. So . . . I’m working my way through that report, trying to pinpoint what pissed you off.”
“Did I just tell you my father kissed that redhead?”
“You did, but I’m having a tough time seeing why that flipped your switch. You’re acting like you’ve never seen your old man kiss a woman before.”
When she said nothing, only stood with her eyes like smoldering blue ice, he let out a half laugh of genuine surprise. “Seriously? You’ve seriously never seen him kiss a woman? The man has to have superhuman discretion.”
Gull stopped again, shook his head and gave her a light slap on the shoulder. “Come on, Ro. You’re not going to tell me you think he actually hasn’t bumped lips with a female in—how old are you, exactly?”
“He doesn’t date.”
“So you said when he had the date with the lady client for drinks . . . Aha. Now my intrepid deductive skills mesh with my keen powers of observation to conclude this would be the same woman.”
“She says she’s a high-school principal. It’s pretty damn clear they’re sleeping together.”
“I guess getting called into the principal’s office has taken on a whole new meaning for your dad.”
“Fuck you.”
“Whoa.” He caught her arm as she spun around. “You’re jealous? You’re actually jealous because your father’s interested in a woman—who’s not you?”
Heat—temper, embarrassment—slapped into her cheeks. “That’s disgusting and untrue.”
“You’re pissed and jealous, and genuinely hurt because your father may be in a romantic relationship with a woman. That’s not disgusting or untrue, Rowan, but it sure strikes me as petty and selfish.”
Something very akin to the disappointment she’d just seen on her father’s face moved over Gull’s. “When’s the last time he threw a tantrum because you were involved with someone?”
Now she felt petty, and that only fueled her temper. “My feelings and my relationship with my father are none of your business. You don’t know a damn thing about it, or me. And you know what, I’m pretty goddamn sick of being dumped on, from Dolly and vindictive bullshit, to tight-assed special agents, my father’s disappointment to your crappy opinion of me. So you can just—”
The shrilling siren sliced off her words.
“Looks like me and my crappy opinion have to get going.” Gull turned his back on her and walked back to the ready room.
It was almost more than she could swallow, standing on the ground again while the plane flew north.
“If this keeps up, they’ll have to send us up.”
She glanced over at Matt. “The way my luck’s going, L.B.’ll cross me off and send Marg if we get another call. How did you rate the basement?”
“He feels like I’m too twisted up about Dolly, because of my niece. Maybe I am.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay. I keep expecting them to come back, say it’s all a mistake.” He held his cap in his hands, turning it around and around in them and leaving his floppy cornsilk hair uncovered.
“It can’t be right, you know, for a baby to lose her father before she’s even born, then her mother so soon after.” He turned to Rowan, and she thought he looked unbearably young and exposed.
“It isn’t right,” she said.
“But things, I guess things just aren’t always right. I guess . . . it’s like fate.”
He leaned into her a little when she hooked an arm around his waist. “It’s harder on you, maybe,” he said, “than me.”
“Me?”
“You found her. If it’s her. Even if it’s not, finding whoever it was. It’s awful you were the one who found her.”
“We’ll both get through it, Matt.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself. I keep thinking of Shiloh, and telling myself that whatever happens, we’ll make sure she’s okay. I mean, she’s just a baby.”
“The Brakemans and your family will take care of her.”
“Yeah. Well, I guess I’ll go up to the loft, try to get my mind on something else.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
She went back to her quarters first, locked herself in. Though she knew it was self-pity, that it was useless, she sat on the floor, leaned back against the bed and had a good cry.
16
The cry emptied out the temper and the self-pity. For a trade-off she accepted the splitting headache, and downed the medication before splashing cold water on her face.
One of the problems with being a true blonde with fair skin, she mused, giving herself the hard eye in the mirror, was that after a jag she resembled someone who�
�d gotten a brutal sunburn, through cheesecloth.
She splashed some more, then wrung out a cold cloth. She gave herself ten minutes flat on her back on the bed, the cloth over her face, to let the meds and the cool do their job.
So she’d overreacted, she thought. Beat her with a brick.
She’d apologize to her father for sticking her nose in his business since he now had business he didn’t want her to stick her nose into.
And she damn well expected the same courtesy from a certain fastfooted, hotshot rookie, so he’d better come back safe.
She checked her face again, decided she’d do. Maybe she didn’t look her best, but she didn’t look as if she’d spent the last twenty minutes curled up on the floor, blubbering like a big baby.
On her way toward Operations to check on the status of the crews, she caught sight of Special Agent DiCicco walking toward her.
“Ms. Tripp.”
“Look, I know you’ve got a job to do, but we’ve got two loads out. I’m heading to Ops, and don’t have time to go over ground I’ve already gone over.”
“I’m sorry, but I will need to speak with you, as well as members of the crew and staff. The remains you discovered yesterday have been positively identified as Dolly Brakeman.”
“Hell.” Sick, Rowan pressed her forehead, and rubbed it side to side. “Oh, hell. How? How did she die?”
“Since some of those details will make the evening news, I can tell you cause of death was a broken neck, possibly incurred in a fall.”
“A fall? You’d have to fall really hard and really wrong. Not an accidental fall, not when she left her car one place and ended up in another.”
DiCicco’s face remained impassive, her eyes level. “This is a homicide investigation, coordinated with an arson investigation. Your instincts on both counts appear to have been right on target.”
“And being right makes me a suspect.”
“I’m not prepared to eliminate anyone as a suspect, but you have an alibi for the time frame. The fact is, you and the victim had an adversarial relationship. It’s an avenue I need to explore.”
“Explore away. Be Magellan. I didn’t look for trouble with her. If I could’ve punched her on the infamous day of the blood of the pigs, I would have. And she’d have earned it. I think she should’ve been charged for what she did to our equipment, and spent some quality time in jail. I don’t think she should’ve died for either of those offenses. She was—”
Rowan broke off as a truck roared in, fishtailing as it swerved in her direction. She grabbed DiCicco’s arm to yank her back even as DiCicco grabbed hers to do the same.
The truck braked with a shriek, spewed up clouds of road dust.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell are you . . .” She trailed off as she recognized the man leaping out of the truck as Leo Brakeman, Dolly’s father.
“My daughter is dead.” He stood there, meaty hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, his former All-State left tackle’s body quivering, his face—wide and hard—reddened.
“Mr. Brakeman, I’m sorry for—”
“You’re responsible. There’s nothing left of her but burned bones, and you’re responsible.”
“Mr. Brakeman.” DiCicco stepped between Rowan and Brakeman, but Rowan shifted to the side, refusing the shield. “I explained to you that I and the full resources of my agency will do everything possible to identify your daughter’s killer. You need to go home, be with your wife and your granddaughter.”
“You’ll just cover it up. You work for the same people. My daughter would be alive today if not for that one.” When he pointed his finger, Rowan felt the raging grief behind it stab like a blade.
“She got Dolly fired because she couldn’t stand being reminded of how she let Jim Brayner die. She got her fired so Dolly had to drive all the way down to Florence to find work. If she didn’t kill my girl with her own hands, she’s the reason for it.
“You think you’re so important?” he raged at Rowan. “You think you can ride on your father’s coattails, and because your name’s Tripp you can push people around? You were jealous of my girl, jealous because Jim tossed you over for her, and you couldn’t stand it. You let him die so she couldn’t have him.”
“Leo.” L.B., with a wall of men behind him, moved forward. “I’m sorry about Dolly. Every one of us is sorry for your loss. But I’m going to ask you once to get off this property.”
“Why don’t you fire her? Why don’t you kick her off this base like she was trash, the way you did my girl? Now my girl’s dead, and she’s standing there like it was nothing.”
“This isn’t a good time for you to be here, Leo.” L.B. kept his voice low, quiet. “You need to go home and be with Irene.”
“Don’t tell me what I need. There’s a baby needs her ma. And none of you give a damn about that. You’re going to pay for what happened to my Dolly. You’re going to pay dear, all of you.”
He spat on the ground, slammed back into his truck. Rowan saw tears spilling down his cheeks as he spun the wheel and sped away.
“Ro.”
“Not now, L.B. Please.” She shook her head.
“Now,” he corrected, and put an arm firm around her shoulders. “You come inside with me. Agent DiCicco, if you need to talk to Rowan, it’s going to be later.”
DiCicco watched the wall of men close ranks like a barricade, then move into the building behind Rowan.
Inside, L.B. steered her straight to his office, shut the door on the rest of the men. “Sit,” he ordered.
When she did, he shoved his hands through his hair, leaned back on his desk. “You know Leo Brakeman’s a hard-ass under the best of circumstances.”
“Yeah.”
“And these are beyond shitty circumstances.”
“I get it. It has to be somebody’s fault, and Dolly blamed me for everything else, so I’m the obvious choice. I get it. If she told him—people—I was doing the deed with Jim before he tossed me over, why wouldn’t her father think I had it out for his kid? And just to clarify, Jim and I were never—”
“You think I don’t know you? I’ll be talking to DiCicco and setting her straight on that front.”
Rowan shrugged. Oddly she’d felt her spine steel up again under Brakeman’s assault. “She’ll either believe it or she won’t. It doesn’t matter. I’m okay, or close to being okay. You don’t have time to babysit me, L.B., not with our crews out.
“I’m sorry for Brakeman,” she said, “but that’s the last time he’ll use me as an emotional punching bag. Dolly was a liar, and her being dead doesn’t change that.”
She got to her feet. “I told you this morning I was fit and fine. That wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t completely true, either. Now it is. Nobody’s going to treat me like Dolly and her father have and make me feel bad about it. I’m not responsible for the baggage full of shit they’ve hauled around. I’ve got plenty of my own.”
“That sounds like you’re fit and fine.”
“I can help out in Ops if you want, or head up to the loft, see what needs doing there.”
“Let’s go see how our boys and girls are doing.”
DICICCO MADE HER WAY to the cookhouse kitchen, found it empty, unless she counted the aromas she dubbed as both comforting and sinful. She started to move into the dining area when a movement out the window caught her eye.
She watched the head cook, Margaret Colby, weeding a patch of an impressive garden.
Marg looked up at the sound of the back door opening, pushed at the wide brim of the straw hat she wore over her kitchen bandanna.
“That’s some very pretty oregano.”
“It’s coming along. Are you looking for me, or just out for a stroll?”
“I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. And to the other cook, Lynn Dorchester.”
“I let Lynn go on home for the afternoon since she was upset. She’ll be back around four.” Marg tossed weeds into the plastic bucket at her feet, then brushe
d off her hands. “I could use some lemonade. Do you want some?”