“It’s an expression,” Tank explained gently. “It means someone who says whatever he thinks the listener wants to hear. You can’t trust someone like that.” Then he turned to Becky. “You’re Thad’s big sister?”
She nodded. “I’m Becky, short for Rebecca.”
Tank extended his hand again. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Becky. So you’re moving in here?”
“I even get my own room, and so does Thad. We don’t have any friends here, though.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I’m eight, and Thad is six.”
“I have twin nieces a little younger than you, Abby and Beth. And their Aunt Rissa has a son who’s a little older than Thad.”
“Would you take us to meet them?” Thad asked.
Immediately Tank looked uncomfortable.
“Thad!” Chrissy admonished. “That’s not polite to ask. I apologize,” she said to Tank.
He rose to his feet. “It’s okay. But…that’s not a good idea. Better talk to Rissa or Veronica yourself.” He glanced at her with an expression she couldn’t understand. “I have to get back to work. Hope you’ll enjoy your new house.” He tipped his hat to them, got back into his big Sheriff’s Dept. SUV and drove off.
They watched him go, then her children looked at her, clearly as confused as she was. “Mommy?” Becky asked. “Do you know Rissa or Veronica?”
She stared at the vehicle already growing small in the distance, one more puzzle to add to the mystery of the man.
“Mommy?”
She tore her gaze away. “I’ve barely met Veronica, but she seems very nice. They’re related to Ruby, so I’ll talk to her. Right now, I have to get back and talk to Mr. Howard about our beautiful new house.” She smiled at her children and took one last look back. “We’re going to be happy here, don’t you think?” Sometimes you had to make your own happiness, and this would be a good start.
“How soon can we move in?” Becky asked.
“We’ll know that in just a few minutes. Everybody in the car, okay?”
Becky got into her side of the back seat of the cranky old SUV Chrissy prayed would last another few thousand miles, but Thad hesitated.
“You okay, Thaddy?”
“I don’t think he’s a scary man, do you, Mom?”
“I don’t.” She hoped.
“His name is Theodore, too. Isn’t that amazing?”
She brushed her hand over the top of his head. “Pretty amazing.”
“We could be Big Theo and Little Theo. Will we see him again?”
Chrissy grinned, wondering what the deputy would think about that. “Would you like to?”
Thad’s mop of carrot-red hair bobbed wildly with his enthusiastic nod, and she reminded herself that he needed a haircut sooner rather than later.
She wasn’t sure if Tank Patton was scary. Her instincts said no, but her instincts had failed her before, so she settled for the noncommittal response. “Sweetgrass Springs is very small, so I expect we’ll see everyone now and again.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her son for now.
“Up you go,” she said, opening the car door.
She glanced back at her new home one more time.
And smiled.
Chapter Three
Kitchen closed until further notice, read the note propped on the counter beneath the telephone. The cook ran off to join the circus.
Jake Cameron squinted and read it again as he groped for a mug to fill with lifesaving coffee—
Which…wasn’t there. The carafe was empty of all but sludge.
“Laura?” The house had a different feel without her in it—too still, somehow. Sterile and cold, robbed of her unbounded energy.
He glanced out the window and saw Puddin’ sniffing around. Though the dog was nominally his, Laura was the one who babied the old guy. If she had really run away, she’d have Puddin’ with her.
Jake grinned sleepily, shrugged and began assembling the makings for a fresh pot. She was pulling his leg, of course, but Laura’s mischief went down better after his brain was clicking.
The filters took a while to hunt down. When was the last time he’d had to make coffee? She was always up before him. He muttered a little before he finally located them. Now, was it one extra scoop for the pot or—
He gave up, shoulders drooping. He craved caffeine, tanker loads of it. Now. Last night had been a long one, with an emergency surgery lasting until nearly two a.m. Okay, you can do this. He dumped two extra scoops for good measure, then shuffled off to hit the shower while the coffee was brewing. On the way, he passed the dining room—
Oh, hell. Their special day. He’d missed it. No wonder Laura had sounded funny when he’d phoned her to say not to wait up.
Man…everything still sat there—wilted salad, melting dessert. His favorite pot roast petrified in congealed grease. Laura liked her house in order; she wasn’t one to leave dishes soaking in the sink, much less food going bad on the table.
He was in deep doo, no question. This date was sacred, the anniversary not of their wedding but of the night they’d first made love. Our Day, they’d named it. For twenty-six years, the tradition had been special to them both. Even during the tumultuous child-raising years they’d never missed it.
He could plead the press of work, which was admittedly crushing since he’d switched to the trauma team. He was so tired half the time he could barely remember his name.
His colleagues thought he was crazy to leave a solid private practice, but he loved this work. Medicine interested him now in a way it hadn’t in a long time.
Not more than Laura, though.
Kitchen closed. Suddenly the note wasn’t quite as funny. Laura was such a gifted cook that friends had often urged her to open a restaurant or catering service. She might not be kidding, and for her to shut down her beloved kitchen…not good. He had some serious amends to make. He’d have to go the distance to dig himself out of this hole.
As soon as he showered, he’d get busy cleaning up the dining room as a gesture of good faith. Laura would be home soon, surely, and he’d apologize like crazy, then—
Upstairs, he heard his phone go off with the ER ringtone and groaned. He was on call. Not a chance he could ignore it. He cast another glance at the mess, painfully aware that he barely had time to throw on clothes.
Not good. Really not good.
But Laura loved him. He loved her.
It would all work out.
At the head of the jogging trail, Laura bent to tighten her shoelaces. Tried to focus on anything but Jake’s absence and what that meant. Once they had been everything to each other; they’d had high hopes for their life together. So many dreams and plans.
One of those, recited like a mantra to each other during the years of surviving the raising of teenagers, had been what life would be like when they were alone again.
Late mornings in bed. Long, lazy breakfasts, swapping sections of the paper. Time for travel, and most of all, to simply be with each other, relishing that while other relationships around them fell apart, they were more in love than ever.
Dreams now little more than vapor.
And Laura was getting truly scared.
Missing Our Day was a shocking example, yes, but only one of many illustrating how far they’d drifted apart. Worse, Jake didn’t seem to see what he was doing to himself. To them.
What he was risking.
She’d begged Jake not to work so hard, but she might as well have saved her voice. He didn’t realize how often he slept on the couch because he’d gotten in late and didn’t want to disturb her. Or was simply so tired he couldn’t manage one more step, much less muster the energy to undress.
For years, they’d spent every night tangled together, unwilling to be more than a breath apart.
But no longer. She was reduced to cuddling his pillow, breathing in what was left of his scent as she struggled to fall asleep alone too many nights.
It wasn�
��t as though she couldn’t entertain herself or didn’t have her own interests—she had plenty of them. But throughout all the demands on both their time, there had always been a special corner of their lives they’d held inviolate. A space inhabited only by the two of them, a refuge where they shared hopes and disappointments, encouraged and healed each other, relived precious and very private memories. One of those was Our Day, their most sacred tradition.
If Jake could forget Our Day, they were in deeper trouble than she’d realized.
A date with her husband, an evening to reconnect, would have done wonders to settle her. To make the future seem less ominous.
It shouldn’t be—they had so much going for them. Two of the kids were still in college—Zack already out, thank heavens—but their finances were solid, and the house was paid for. Gabe would be out of school in May and Carla the next year, so it was nearly their turn to fly, hers and Jake’s. They’d spent years looking forward to this time alone while they were still healthy and able.
But she’d married a latent adrenaline junkie, best she could tell. She stretched her quads, then slid into moves to do the same for her hamstrings.
Not that the signs hadn’t been there, if only she’d recognized them. Diving off cliffs in Acapulco on their honeymoon. Bungee-jumping for his thirtieth birthday.
He’d been a resident when they met; she’d been a bookstore clerk, one of a procession of forgettable jobs she’d held since she was fourteen. She’d always worked hard but never with a clear career path in mind. She’d continued to work until she’d gotten pregnant, helping to whittle away at the mountain of student loans that had come along with Jake.
Of course she’d had to get used to being a medical widow at times, married to a surgeon on call. Surgeons were renowned jet-jockeys with a stiff dose of God complex. Still, he’d been a devoted father and family man, who’d missed the important events of his children’s lives only when absolutely necessary.
Who would have expected him to go bonkers at fifty-one and cross-train in trauma?
He was in excellent shape, but he wasn’t young. Neither was she. If they were to fulfill those ambitions of travel and fun together, they’d have to do so soon, while they were still healthy and had the energy.
Instead Jake was obsessed.
And Laura was struggling to keep her faith.
She straightened. Refused to concede to the tears burning behind her eyes.
Instead, she held her head high and began to run.
Tank Patton stood on the highest point of his land, envisioning the house that would one day sit there. From this spot he could see the rolling slopes of the Hill Country, could picture the herd of cattle grown from the few head he’d painstakingly cultivated as the seeds of his future herd.
Moments like this were the antidote for nights like the one before, when the job edged too close to the dark memories in his head. A terrified woman too afraid to leave the man who was her nightmare.
He just hoped to God he wouldn’t be on call when it was too late—because that day would come. Men like that one didn’t get better. Sooner or later the man would kill her.
He couldn’t stop a glance back toward the house he wished he could rip from its foundation this very second. It was where he’d grown up, where a boy had tried unsuccessfully to defend his mother and his sister from the monster that was his father.
No matter what his sister Veronica said, he hadn’t been able to do enough, hadn’t been big enough, strong enough, powerful enough to overcome Vernon Patton’s violence until much too late. So many things would have been different if he could have rid the earth of Vernon Patton. How anyone could treat the woman he supposedly loved that way, could have used his fists on his children, he would never understand.
Children were meant to be loved and cherished. He might not have any experience with what that felt like, but he’d witnessed it all around him in the Gallagher family, in how Gordon McLaren had raised Ian, in how Jackson Gallagher’s mom had taken Mackey under her wing and made him a second son.
What he couldn’t understand was why none of them had stepped in to intervene for his sister, who had been nothing but kindness and sweetness all her life.
He knew why they hadn’t reached out to him. Even as a boy, they’d seen what was wrong with him.
He was Vernon Patton’s seed. Within him were the roots of violence. He’d hated Ian and Jackson and Mackey, envied them the love so freely given. But instead of being good like his sister, he’d been unable to overcome who he was at his core: a violent brute like his father.
That was why he’d never have children. Children feared him, and rightly so. They saw the darkness inside him, the brutality he couldn’t eradicate, only do his best to control.
For a second, his thoughts flickered to the little boy who’d been so delighted they shared a given name. Floppy red hair and warm brown eyes glinting with mischief, looking at him like he was some kind of hero because he wore a badge and went after the bad guys.
No way, kid. I am one of the bad guys. Everyone thought that, and they weren’t wrong. If most of the time he kept that part of him strapped down hard and buried deep, nonetheless he always knew it was there. He was the man his father had made him: strong and deadly. Powerful enough eventually to frighten his father away from using his fists on his mother. Veronica, thank God, had escaped into marriage to David Butler, the fourth Horseman of that vaunted quartet who’d been hometown heroes. While Tank had been their archenemy.
If his sister had recently begun trying to draw him into her family, the one she shared with her teenage love Jackson Gallagher after David Butler’s untimely death, still he hovered on the outskirts. Even if she considered him her hero for his defense, he knew who he was. Knew that those little fairy princess nieces of his were too sweet and too innocent to risk.
Even his nephew Ben had extended the olive branch, though his high school friends still gave Tank wide berth.
Everyone else in this town kept distance between him and them, and that was only wise. He could be his father if he ever loosened the straining bonds he kept lashed around the darkness inside him.
He was better off alone. Maybe the boy he barely remembered being had hoped for a different future, but that wasn’t his reality. He was who he was, deep in his core, and all he knew to do with his life was to put one foot in front of the other, to try to make the pursuit of justice a substitute for the family he would never have, the love that was a pipedream.
He wondered why he stayed. Maybe in a new place he could start over, could be someone else. Define himself without his past hanging over him.
But the land beneath his feet had been fought for and died for by his blood, and surely not all of them were the bastards Vernon had been. He was a Patton, descended from Tobias Patton, one of the four founding families of Sweetgrass Springs. He had roots here, deep ones.
If he would never have a child of his blood to pass this land down to, he couldn’t help that. Ben and his sisters weren’t Pattons by name, and that name would have to die out, but they carried that same blood in their veins, minus the darkness. He would pass on the land to Veronica’s children and be satisfied with that. Meanwhile, he would continue spending every hour away from law enforcement building up this homestead to what it should have been, had not Vernon Patton been more interested in violence and drinking.
An important step would be to tear down the old place, board by board. It was part of his family’s legacy, but whatever good resided there had long ago been tainted too badly, smeared by the black heart of a man nobody missed.
Maybe he’d be able to breathe more easily when it was gone.
But he had cattle to check on and feed to buy first, however his fingers itched to rid himself forever of the sight of the place where so much evil had lived.
“What a night, huh, Doc?” asked Jake’s favorite nurse, Stella, when they met at the coffeepot. “Laura even get time to kiss you good morning?”
&nb
sp; He slugged down as much coffee as possible before responding, though it scorched his throat all the way. “She’s okay.” He studied the contents of his cup.
“Uh-oh. Look at me, Doc.”
“What?”
“Don’t go bein’ all innocent on me. Man can’t look me in the eye, he got somethin’ to hide.” She lifted an eyebrow. “How much trouble you in?”
“Not that much.” He cut his gaze back to Stella. “I’ll order flowers.”
“Oh, boy. You missed somethin’ important. Birthday? Anniversary?” At his wince, she arrowed in. “Son, you are a cliché, you know that? Aren’t you ashamed, Dr. Golden Hands? Couldn’t you at least screw up something original?”
Jake rolled his eyes. He hated that name, begun in his days as a renowned cosmetic surgeon. It was said that only God and Dr. Golden Hands could tell where your scars were and what procedure you’d had—no one else could begin to detect. He’d earned a tidy nest egg for Laura and himself as his practice grew and grew.
Until he’d reached the day when one too many vain women, terrified of aging naturally, walked into his office, and he’d spent the entire consultation talking her into counseling, instead.
Yes, he’d had some opportunities to do meaningful work as a plastic surgeon; he’d performed pro bono procedures when possible, but he’d been determined to provide for his family as his own father had not. His mother had done her best, but her lack of education had meant a series of menial jobs. He’d wanted his children to have a full-time mom and was grateful Laura had been of like mind.
At times, though, he’d felt that he’d sold his soul, catering to female insecurities, no matter how lucrative such a practice was, how much it meant he could do for his family. Finally he’d reached a point where he could not, in good conscience, continue.
“It wasn’t our wedding anniversary,” he protested. As if that helped. “And Laura understands my work.” Though he was less certain of that today. “She’s a good woman. She’ll be upset, but she’ll forgive me. I’ll make it up to her.” Then an idea hit. “What time is it? Know a good cleaning service?”
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