To Protect Their Child

by Sheryl Lynn

  Despite a heavy limp, he appeared much improved. His face sported healthy color, and his tawny hair shone like beaten gold beneath the winter sun. A down coat concealed his body, but he seemed to have gained some weight. He no longer looked fragile.

  He smiled. She felt the power of it thrumming deep in her belly. With the unexpected pleasure came guilt. He’d left several messages on her answering machine, all of them polite and concerned. She hadn’t returned his calls.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said, smiling at Jodi. “Remember me, kiddo?”

  Frowning thoughtfully, Jodi peered up at him. Elaine shifted uneasily. Jodi had Ric’s coloring, from the honey-gold blond hair to the dark blue eyes. Her eyebrows winged the way his did, too, straight and dramatic, lending her face exotic expressiveness. Years ago, Elaine had convinced herself that Ric was the wrong man for her, that he was no family man and he wouldn’t have married her anyway. She’d been a summer fling for a handsome soldier before he shipped out overseas.

  “Yeah,” Jodi said, her smile a ghost of what it used to be. “You’re Mr. Ric. How come you limp?”

  “Jodi!”

  “That’s okay,” he said with a chuckle. “I had an accident.”

  Jodi wrinkled her nose. “That’s sad.”

  “Afraid so. So what are you ladies up to? Looks like you’re playing Santa.”

  “What kind of accident, Mr. Ric?”

  “Jodi, please don’t be nosy,” Elaine said, her cheeks warming.

  “Well, now,” Ric said to the child, “that’s a story better told over hot chocolate and Uncle Walt’s oatmeal cookies. Maybe your mom will let me steal you away some afternoon and I can tell you about it.”

  Jodi nodded eagerly. “Can I, Mommy? Today?”

  “We have errands to run. We need to get the bridle fixed.”

  The girl turned gloomy again. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter with the bridle?” Ric asked.

  “Oh,” Jodi replied with a groan. She shrugged the bridle off her shoulder and held it out to him. “I mail-ordered it special for Grandma. See, it’s got her initials. Only the buckle on the throatlatch is busted.”

  Ric took the bridle. “I see.”

  “It’s too late to send it back. I’m hoping Mr. Paul over at the hardware store can fix it.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Uncle Walt has boxes full of buckles and whatnots. I bet he can make it better than new. Only thing he’s doing right now is looking at cookie recipes.”

  “Can I ask him, Mommy? Please?”

  Elaine looked across the street. Faded lettering on a concrete block building announced Buchanan Fine Carpentry. Walt Buchanan had owned the wood shop for longer than Elaine had been alive. Before he joined the army, Ric had worked after school and on weekends for his uncle. Back then folks called him Betsy’s brat, speaking with a superior sneer. Even when she was a child, Elaine had thought it unfair how people looked down on him. As if no one noticed, or cared, how polite he was or how hard he worked. All they noticed was that his mother was a drunk and his father was unknown.

  She’d been barely older than Jodi was now when she developed a crush on Ric. She’d wheeled her bicycle to the shop to see if Walt could repair it. Walt hadn’t been there. Ric fixed the bike. He’d called her sweetie. A nice boy being nice to a little kid, but she’d been thunderstruck.

  Melancholy rose in her throat. “Sure, go ahead. But if he’s busy, don’t bug him.”

  Jodi thrust the gift-wrapped boxes at Ric, then took off at a run, the bridle jouncing and her blond braids flapping against her shoulders.

  “She’s sure a pretty little thing. Going to be tall, looks like.”

  Elaine didn’t want to discuss her daughter with Ric. “I better go. My feet are getting cold.”

  He pointed his chin at the realty door. “Going inside?” With packages balanced on his arm, he hobbled to the door and opened it for her. Christmas carols drifted from the office.

  “Thank you.” She shifted her grip on the gifts and waited until he piled the others on top of them.

  “I’m always at the shop. Drop in for a visit.”

  Head down, she mumbled, “Sure,” but knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She bustled inside, not even daring to breathe until the door shut behind her.

  RIC GLOWERED at the door. Who did she think she was treating him like a pariah? If Elaine expected him to grovel and beg for her precious attention, she better prepare for a long, long wait. The anger surprised him and made him feel vaguely ashamed. Elaine seemed wispy, somehow, as if she hadn’t merely lost a few pounds but was fading like mist off a river. He’d meant to tell her that he knew about Jodi. Her wounded forest creature eyes had stopped him. Only a Class A creep would get angry at a woman whose husband had died less than three months ago.

  She needed time. He’d give it to her—call it a Christmas gift.

  He limped across the street, entered the wood shop and a blast of hot air made his cold cheeks sting.

  Jodi Greene leaned her elbows on a work bench, watching Walt rivet a new buckle onto the bridle. His daughter. He still couldn’t quite get his thoughts around the knowledge that Jodi was his child, his blood. Strange hunger gnawed him, revealing an emptiness he’d never known was there.

  After Elaine there had been other women: dates, flings, even a few affairs that threatened to turn serious. None of them had made him hunger for family, the way he hungered now.

  If the only woman he’d ever loved was lost to him, at least he could still know his child.

  “Was I right?” he called, shrugging out of his coat.

  Jodi beamed, her elfin face alight with her smile. The resemblance to his mother staggered him.

  “He’s fixing it good, Mr. Ric. Grandma’s gonna love it!” She rested one foot on the toe and it waggled back and forth in time with “Jingle Bell Rock” blaring from the radio.

  “I’m sure she will. So what did you ask Santa for Christmas?”

  Her narrow face darkened, and the glow died in her eyes. Her foot stopped dancing. “Santa’s for little kids.”

  Walt skewed his face in mock dismay. As he did every winter, he allowed his beard to grow, giving him a more than passing resemblance to jolly old Saint Nick. He relished playing Santa Claus at the elementary school and at the lodge party. “Now, now, honey-pie. It’s a time of joy and goodwill. Not for being glum. Wishes come true at Christmas, you know.”

  She shook her head. “Not mine. All the wishing in the world won’t ever bring my daddy back.”

  Wanna bet? Ric thought. Over the girl’s head he met his uncle’s gaze. Walt quirked an eyebrow, his smile challenging.

  A challenge Ric accepted. No more fatherless children in the Buchanan family. He couldn’t replace Bobby, he hadn’t the slightest idea how to care for a child or how be a father, but he was here for his daughter anyway.

  Chapter Three

  The first thing Ric noticed when he entered the Track Shack was a fancy arrangement of daisies in a teddy bear-shaped pot, proudly displayed on the bar. Banners of red foil hearts strung along the walls and red cloths on the tables drove home the fact that Junior Haversham no longer ran the place. Junior wouldn’t have decorated for Valentine’s Day if Cupid himself held a gun to his head.

  Whistling, Tate Raleigh pushed through the batwing doors leading to the kitchen. He carried a stack of beer glass racks. The racks were full, but Tate handled them as if they weighed no more than Styrofoam.

  “Ranger!” he called. “Good to see you again. Consuela was starting to think you didn’t like her cooking.”

  Ric took a seat on a stool. He inhaled the savory aroma of stewed pork, caramelized onions and roasted chilies; his stomach growled. “Been busy. Uncle Walt’s put me to work.” He pointed his chin at the flower arrangement. “Which one of your employees has an admirer?”

  Tate passed a hand over the side of his glossy black hair. “I do. Alice Darby sent it.”

  Ric had met the w
illowy blond schoolteacher; she was Elaine’s best friend. Though Elaine remained cool and distant, Alice always had a warm smile for him. He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Honest,” Tate insisted. “We went dancing. Might even go out again.” He whistled admiringly. “They didn’t make teachers like that when I was kid. So what can I get you?”

  Ric ordered stew and coffee. He pulled off his coat. It hadn’t snowed since January, but it was bitterly cold outside. Wind rattled the windows and howled against the roof vents. Yet, after long stints in the Middle East, Central America and Texas, he appreciated the cold weather. It was a whole lot easier to warm up than to cool down.

  While waiting for Tate, he studied the empty dining room. The lunch crowd had left, and the afternoon coffee drinkers hadn’t arrived. Good timing. When Tate set the food in front of him, Ric asked, “So how do you like working for the sheriff?”

  “I like it fine.” Glassware rattled while Tate unloaded the racks. “I patrol three days a week. Make a few emergency calls. Easy street. The sheriff warned me about you, by the way.”

  No doubt.

  “Said you were a juvenile delinquent. You burned down a barn.”

  Dumbfounded, Ric stared at the big man. Then he got it and laughed. “Yeah, only it was a toolshed. I was ten years old, trying to smoke a cigar a kid filched from his dad. The other boys ran off. I wouldn’t have got caught if I hadn’t tried to put out the fire. A real master criminal.”

  Tate tsk-tsk’d. Then he laughed. “Small town, gotta love it. Back in my old neighborhood, kids rob liquor stores when they aren’t shooting each other.”

  Ric used a hand-pressed tortilla to dig into the stew. He could eat Consuela’s green chile three times a day, everyday. Its heat blasted his sinuses while the spicy, earthy flavor filled his mouth. He swallowed, wondering how to approach Tate with his questions. He finally decided straight out was best. “What’s your opinion of the sheriff’s ruling on Bobby’s death?”

  Tate kept stacking glassware on shelves. “Got a good reason for asking?”

  “Probably not,” Ric said honestly.

  “Does Tom Greene have something to do with it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Tate poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned his elbows on the bar. “I really liked Bobby. Good guy. I like his old man, too. Might say he meets all my expectations about the Wild West. Decent, plain spoken, lots of common sense.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Stubborn.”

  That described Tom Greene perfectly. “Has Tom been talking to you?”

  Tate stirred enough cream into his coffee to turn it pale tan, then dumped in sugar. “He’s not one bit satisfied with the ruling. I don’t blame him. I’m not satisfied either.”

  Ric’s gut tightened. Getting involved in a mystery went against the grain. He made a point of minding his own business and never pushing his nose into places it didn’t belong. Especially in McClintock, where as a kid he’d been treated as an outcast. He still felt unsure about his place in the community. If he weren’t careful, he could end up run out of town, quite possibly tarred and feathered as a bonus. Bobby deserved justice, though, and Tom deserved the truth.

  “Why aren’t you satisfied?” Ric didn’t know if Tate would answer, but no harm in asking.

  “Once a murder police, always a murder police.”

  “You were a homicide detective?”

  “Six years, New York’s finest. I was good, too, don’t mind saying. I answered the call up to the lodge that night. Got there right behind the ambulance. I had time to shoot one roll of film and process Del’s weapon before the sheriff hustled me out.”

  Ric’s prickling turned into an itch. “He didn’t let you examine the bodies?”

  “It sounds more suspicious than it is. In twenty-five years the sheriff has seen plenty of homicides, but only three were murders.” He snorted. “I’ve done more than that in a single day. There he walked in on family members and freaked out. He panicked.”

  “So he is covering up murder.”

  Tate gave him a hard look. “I didn’t say that. I’ve known my share of bent cops. Sheriff McClintock isn’t one of them. He’s too rich to be bought and too concerned about that whole McClintock legacy thing to get caught up in scandal.”

  “Did he talk to people? Check to see if Del had a motive for murder?”

  “Barely. And he ordered me flat out not to stir up trouble.” He lowered his voice to a menacing rumble. “If you don’t think it’s not driving me freakin’ crazy, think again. Tom’s been talking to everybody, then telling me what he learns, but my hands are tied. The sheriff doesn’t like what Tom is doing one little bit.”

  “I imagine so.” Ric ate a few bites of stew. He liked Tate and felt him trustworthy. “Remember that day I met you?”

  “You and Bobby had a fight. Same day he died.”

  That almost sounded like a warning. Ric pushed ahead anyway. “Bobby told me he’d run across some shabby information. No names, no details, but he was troubled. He acted like it was a big deal. Maybe it was motive for murder.”

  “So what were you fighting about?”

  Ric grinned wryly. He walked a fine line between seeking justice for his best friend and shattering his daughter’s life. “Bobby pulled something on me a few years back. He confessed so I wouldn’t hear about it from another source.” He held up a hand, stopping Tate’s questions. “I won’t hurt innocent parties by going into it.” He paused, considering how much he knew as a fact, which was precious little. He didn’t like placing blame where it didn’t belong, but then again, what other conclusion was there? “I think Bobby caught Del doing something. I don’t know what, don’t even have a clue. But I’m pretty sure Del threatened Bobby, trying to keep him quiet. Bobby wasn’t the sort to back down from a bully. It might be the reason Del shot him.”

  “Tom hasn’t turned up anything illegal, immoral or unethical in Del’s background.” Again the low voice and shifty glances toward the kitchen. “I haven’t either.”

  The implication was clear. Tate was defying direct orders, jeopardizing his position with the sheriff’s department in a search for the truth.

  “What about the realty office?” Ric asked. “Tom says no one will talk to him. Not even Linda Pallo, and she’s known him all his life.”

  “His people skills aren’t real…polished. I’ve had a few chats with the receptionist, Kay Taylor. Nice lady. I can’t get a whiff of anything fishy.” Tate drew back, his dark eyes thoughtful over the rim of his coffee mug. “Must be getting kind of crowded there in your uncle’s house. There are a lot of nice properties for sale in the area.”

  Tate could not possibly mean for Ric to go undercover in the realty office. A sly grin said that was exactly what he meant.

  “This valley is the prettiest country I’ve ever seen,” Ric said. He laughed out loud. “Wouldn’t King Mc-Clintock love it if I became a homeowner in his town?” “Just don’t burn down any barns, boy,” Tate said, in a fair imitation of the sheriff’s pompous drawl, “and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “WALT. RIC. I’m so glad you could come out today.” Lillian Crowder invited Ric and his uncle into her home. Both men removed their hats and took pains to wipe mud off their feet before entering her spotless kitchen.

  Walt clasped Lillian’s tiny hands in his callused paws. “You’re looking real fine, Miz Lillian.”

  Amused, Ric cocked an eyebrow. They’d come to the ranch about a carpentry job, but beforehand Walt had changed into a clean, pressed shirt and clean blue jeans, shaved his face and slicked back his hair. Now the old man looked a bit starry-eyed. Must be spring, Ric thought.

  “You are looking well, Mrs. Crowder,” Ric said. He meant it sincerely. She was in her fifties, but still a beautiful woman. Looking at her made it easy to imagine what Elaine would look like in twenty years.

  “Oh, drop the formality and call me Lillian.” She stood on tiptoes and brushed his cheek with an airy kiss. “How is your back doing
, hon? I see you aren’t using a cane anymore.”

  Unlike her husband had, Lillian Crowder didn’t put on airs. Her great-great grandfather had discovered a gold mine, made millions of dollars, and created an empire. She was so warm and earthy, it was easy to forget she worked a ranch that comprised half the Maya Valley. She served them coffee, chitchatted about a May snowstorm that had skiers ecstatic but fruit growers in a panic, then asked Ric about the property he’d recently purchased.

  Caught off guard by her question, he stiffened. He’d spent a lot of time in Crowder Realty talking to Kay Taylor, Linda Pallo, and Axton Cross. Ric hadn’t sniffed anything remotely fishy. If Del had been engaged in monkey business, then none of his employees had known about it.

  Lillian’s smile eased his discomfort.

  “I bought ten acres up north of town. Right up against national forest. It has a good well and electrical hookups. I’m going to build a house.”

  “Good for you,” she said, sounding as if she truly meant it. “So, let’s talk about my renovation project. I know you aren’t a general contractor, Walt, but I trust you more than anyone else. You know who does good plumbing and electrical work. I need the bunkhouse completely done over. The kitchen in there dates back to the Forties, and it can use another bathroom. When the seasonal workers come in, they probably feel like they’re living in a tent city.” She turned a large sheet of paper covered with sketches so Walt could see it. “This is pretty much what I want.”

  “Building something nice for you is a dream come true for me, Miz Lillian,” Walt said. She fluttered her eyelashes at him. He actually blushed.

  “Grandma! I’m home from school.” The back door slammed and Jodi skipped into the kitchen. She dropped a backpack on the floor.

  Ric’s heart warmed at the sight of her. Jodi was smart, funny, curious and charming. Every glimpse he’d had of her over the past few months fueled his hunger to know her better. Elaine, however, was making a point of avoiding him. He never got the chance to really talk to the girl.