Stonebrook Cottage

by Carla Neggers

  "Wrong. All of Texas is my jurisdiction."

  "That's not what I meant. I meant you're stationed in San Antonio—" She stopped herself, squaring her shoulders as she eyed him coolly. "Sam, is this an official visit?"

  "Do you mean if you lie to me can I arrest you?" He took a step toward her, aware he was even more intense than usual. She drew back, as if a little shocked at his closeness, but he didn't ease off. "You opened your door loaded for bear. Why?"

  "For God's sake, Sam, it's the middle of the night."

  "You knew it wasn't an intruder. Your door has glass panels. You saw me."

  She took a breath, the light from behind her casting shadows over her face. He saw her intensity, her determination, and knew she had no intention of easing off, either. "Okay. I didn't want you to think I open my door to near strangers unprotected."

  As if he was a near stranger and a vase would have protected her. Sam decided not to push his point. "Why didn't you tell me about Governor Parisi's death?"

  His question seemed to catch her off guard. He saw her swallow, remembered kissing her smooth throat. She averted her eyes. "I couldn't get the words out. It was as if saying it out loud would have made it real."

  "Kara, we were together for a long time."

  Her dark eyes lifted to him, met him dead-on. "I know what you must think. It was a weird weekend. Let's just forget it."

  "I don't regret what happened between us."

  "Neither do I." She took a breath, dropping her hand from the door. "Look, it's late, and I'm worried about Henry and Lillian—"

  "I smell popcorn."

  "What? Oh—oh, yeah. I didn't have any dinner."

  Sam leaned toward her, making no secret that he was trying to peer into her living room. "You're not going to invite me in?"

  "Not without a warrant, Sergeant Temple." She smiled, but there was no mistaking her seriousness of purpose. He wasn't getting past her. She had her vase, and she had the law.

  "Kara, if you have something to tell me, get it out on the table. Now."

  No impact. "It's been a long day," she said smoothly. "We're both worried about Henry and Lillian. So, let's not do this. You turn around and go do your Texas Ranger thing, and I'll let you know if I need you."

  He had to remember she was a respected attorney. If she was afraid or troubled, she could handle it. She knew where to turn for help.

  She also knew how to skirt the truth with him if it suited her. She'd come right up to the line—if not cross it.

  Sam placed one foot on the threshold and narrowed his eyes on her. He saw her lips part and knew she was thinking he might kiss her. He was tired enough that it seemed a natural thing to do, kissing Kara Galway in the doorway of her little house, never mind that she was trying to get rid of him—hiding something from him.

  Instead, he tapped her chin with one finger. "I wouldn't cross me if I were you."

  She shrugged, unintimidated. "Fine. I won't cross you."

  "If you know anything about the Stockwell kids—"

  "It's a family matter, Sam, not a law enforcement matter. It's sure as hell not a matter for the Texas Rangers. You're supposed to assist in major criminal investigations. This isn't one."

  "Are you sure you never told anyone Mike Parisi couldn't swim?"

  "Go away, Sam. I'm tired."

  "When did you find out? Did he tell you for a specific reason or did he just let it slip? What was he to you? What was he to your godchildren?"

  He didn't expect her to answer his questions. He was simply demonstrating how having the runaway kids of the new governor of Connecticut on the loose in Texas was his business if he decided it was.

  Not that it had any effect on her. "Give it up, Sergeant Temple. Mike's death and Henry and Lillian skipping out of summer camp are at most only peripherally related."

  He stepped back onto the porch, the hot night air mingling with the cool air coming from her house. He remembered her soft, white sheets, one of Eva Dun-ning's hand sewn quilts hanging on the wall above her bed. Kara, Kara. What had he done?

  He pressed two fingers to his lips, then touched them to hers. "I went too fast with you. I'm sorry."

  "Sam—"

  But he straightened, removing any hint of softness from his expression. "If those kids don't turn up at the airport, I'll be back." He started down the porch steps, his back to her as he added, "You can make more popcorn."

  * * *

  Kara locked her front door behind her and stood in the foyer, her head pounding. A suspicious Texas Ranger was just what she needed. Now what? Sam or the Austin police would find the cabdriver who'd taken Henry and Lillian to Hyde Park. Two rich kids on their own—the driver would remember them.

  The effects of her long day ate at her nerves, threw her off her normal manner of doing things. She wasn't one to panic. When she was nine years old, she'd had to sit motionless next to her dying mother while they waited for the paramedics. Ranger Temple wasn't getting under her skin. She wouldn't let it happen.

  Except it already had. Her reaction to him on her doorstep had been instantaneous and overpowering, a mix of attraction and desire, frustration, a touch of embarrassment, even fear, although not for herself. Having a tight-lipped Texas Ranger at her house gave weight to what Henry and Lillian had done in running off from the dude ranch, what their lives had become now that Big Mike was gone and their mother was governor.

  Tell no one…I'm trusting you with my children…

  Kara shook off the words in the letter. Replaying them in her head would get her nowhere, and it was her own damn fault she had Sam on her case. She'd given his name to Zoe West in Connecticut, figuring it couldn't hurt to have a Texas Ranger vouching for her whereabouts. She hadn't expected the Bluefield detective to go to the trouble of checking out her story and actually calling him.

  Then, after Allyson had told her about Henry and Lillian, Kara immediately drove to San Antonio in a panic. It wasn't just to see her brother and Susanna and get their moral support. She'd half hoped Sam would be there.

  She'd more than half hoped.

  She pulled out sheets in the hall linen closet, figuring she might as well make up the couch and at least get some sleep before she had to deal with Sam. Or should she wake up the kids and clear out before he got back here? She couldn't think straight. She started back to the living room with her armload of sheets.

  "Aunt Kara!" Lillian called in a panicked whisper, crab-walking up the short hall from the bedroom. Her face was ashen. "Get down! He can see you!"

  "Lillian, good God—"

  "Get down!"

  Doing as she asked, Kara crouched down with her sheets and made her way to Lillian. "What is it, Lil?" The frightened girl was barely breathing. "Did you have a nightmare? Did you see my friend Sam—"

  "It's the man…" She faltered, unable to speak. Purple splotches spread across her pale cheeks as she gulped in more and more air, not breathing out.

  "Lillian…honey, you need to hold your breath for a couple of seconds. You're not exhaling. If you get too much oxygen into your bloodstream, you'll pass out."

  She raised her huge blue eyes to Kara and dutifully held her breath for two seconds, then blew out a sharp breath and blurted, "It's the man from the ranch!"

  "What man? Where?"

  "Outside. I saw him. Henry said we shouldn't tell you about him until we get to Stonebrook Cottage, but he's here. Mom doesn't even know about him."

  Kara could feel Lillian's near hysteria infecting her. Wisps of blond hair matted the girl's damp forehead and temples, beads of perspiration formed on her freckled nose. Kara steadied herself. "Lillian, where? Where is this man?"

  "Out front. He's in a car. I saw him from the bedroom window."

  "Are you sure? This is the city. There are lots of cars—"

  "It's him. Come on, I'll show you." She tugged on Kara's arm, but when Kara tried to stand up, Lillian gasped and dug her fingernails into her godmother's wrists, almost drawing blood.
"Stay down."

  Whatever was going on with these kids, Kara thought, it was serious and undoubtedly more than she could handle alone. She set the sheets on the floor and tried to maintain an outward air of calm, if only to reassure Lillian, who was scared out of her wits. The girl's hyperventilating wasn't an act. Kara had seen enough faked fear and panic attacks—on the part of witnesses, clients, even young attorneys before a big trial—to recognize the difference.

  Staying low, she followed Lillian to the bedroom. Henry was on his knees at the window, peering over the sill in the dark, an angle of light from outside catching his pale face. He silently motioned for Kara and his sister to join him.

  "I wasn't going to tell you," he whispered when Kara crouched next to him. "I didn't want to scare you,

  but Lillian wouldn't listen. He's out there."

  "Who, Henry?" Kara asked.

  "Do you see the black car? That's him."

  She looked up past the neighbor's house, craning her neck, and saw a black sedan parked on the street. Someone was in the front seat, but she couldn't tell if it was a man or woman.

  "Look," Lillian said, kneeling down on Kara's other side, "he's smoking a cigarette."

  Kara frowned. "I can't see the cigarette never mind who's in the car. How do you two know he's from the ranch?"

  "He got out of the car a few minutes ago," Henry said. "He stared right at your house. Lillian and I got a good look at him, didn't we, Lil?"

  "Uh-huh. He was under the streetlight."

  "Okay, I believe you," Kara said. "So who is he?"

  Henry sat down on the floor, leaning back against the wall under the window with his knees tucked up under his chin. Kara noticed a smattering of small scratches and bruises on his tanned bare legs, a twelve-year-old at summer's end. How had his and Lillian's summer come to this?

  "We saw him watching us at the ranch," he said. "Well, I did, and I warned Lillian to look out for him. He showed up the first of this week."

  "Are you sure he wasn't an employee? He didn't introduce himself—"

  "Sometimes he had on a disguise," Lillian said. "I saw him with a fake mustache. I thought he looked stupid."

  A fake mustache. It could have been another man altogether and Lillian had just leaped to the conclusion it was her strange man in a disguise. "Did you ever talk to him?" Kara asked.

  Both kids shook their heads. "That would have been dumb," Henry said.

  "Yeah," Lillian said, "what if he dragged us into the woods and chopped our heads off?"

  Kara winced, but realized Lillian was serious. Bad things could happen if you talked to strange men. Why hadn't it occurred to them that bad things could happen if you lit out on your own?

  But Kara stuck to the issue at hand. "Did this man ever approach you, ever try to talk to you?"

  "No." Henry was remarkably calm. "He just watched us, usually from where no one else could see him. I asked one of my friends who he was, but the man disappeared—it's like he knew I was checking him out."

  Kara peered out at the parked car and wondered if the stress of the past weeks—the isolation they'd felt after Mike's death and their mother becoming governor, coupled with the unfamiliarity of being on a Texas dude ranch—had pushed these two bright, imaginative kids over the edge. They had to be making this stuff up.

  "You didn't tell your counselors about him?"

  "I wanted to," Lillian said, "but Henry wouldn't let me."

  He pursed his lips, as if contemplating the logic of his decision. "I was scared to say anything. Then Mom told us to come here. I knew something was wrong."

  "Lillian says your mother doesn't know about this guy."

  "We didn't want to worry her. She was already worried enough."

  Kara tried to follow his thinking, but he was twelve years old. "Okay—are you sure this is the same guy?"

  "Yes," he and Lillian said simultaneously.

  They argued over everything—the rules of a card game, television shows, favorite rock groups, where to sit in a restaurant. Kara had put a stop to their bickering enough times to realize that agreeing, without hesitation, about the man outside had to mean something. She sighed, wishing she could be neutral and objective where Henry and Lillian Stockwell were concerned. If they could successfully manipulate anyone, it'd be her. She loved them unconditionally, and they knew it.

  Sam would want to know about the man in the black sedan.

  Both kids were back on their knees, spying out the window. The car's headlights popped on, catching them by surprise. Lillian dived to the floor, sobbing and gulping for air, and Henry ducked down low and went stone-still, as if any movement might give away his position.

  Kara touched Lillian's trembling shoulder. "Stay here. I'll be right back. Trust me."

  She ran up the hall into the foyer, tore open her door and shot out onto the porch, catching the car as it moved up the street. It had a Texas tag, but she couldn't make it out or tell if the car was a rental.

  She debated calling Sam. Her brother. 911. Never mind the damn letter—never mind Henry and Lillian's irrational fear. This was her decision to make. She was the prevailing adult here.

  When she returned to her bedroom, her godchildren were hoisting their backpacks onto their shoulders, grim-faced, as if they knew exactly what Kara was considering doing and now they had to go find someone else to help them.

  She sighed. "What are you two doing?"

  "We're getting out of here." Henry spoke calmly, seriously. "He'll come back. We don't want him to find us—or you. We have no right to endanger you, Aunt Kara."

  She ignored a sudden, overwhelming wave of nausea and forced herself to focus on the problem at hand. These kids were on the verge of spinning out of control. She had to do something, say something, that would settle them down.

  Sam would be back before long. Wouldn't they feel safe with a Texas Ranger?

  Henry straightened, as if what they did next was entirely up to him. "Come on, Lil. Let's get out of here. If Aunt Kara won't come with us, we'll just have to manage on our own. We can do it."

  Lillian seemed less confident, but nodded.

  "Listen," Kara said, "there's someone I can call—"

  Henry shook his head, adamant. "No." His face had turned a grayish white, and he started to shake uncontrollably, his self-control crumbling. He stiffened visibly, but the shaking didn't ease. Tears rolled down his cheeks, shining in the light from the street.

  "Aunt Kara…please, you have to believe us. We're in danger."

  If they were in danger, there was no question she should call Sam, but she'd never get that far. The kids would bolt. They'd skipped out on the dude ranch and made it all the way to damn Austin on their own— they'd skip out on her, too.

  She still had to deal with the letter from Allyson. Did she believe Allyson had written it? Did it even matter at this point? It demonstrated what Henry and Lillian believed was at stake.

  And if they didn't release her from attorney-client privilege, there wasn't much she could tell Sam, anyway.

  "All right." Kara tried to sound decisive, although her plan was still sketchy, in its early stages—and crazy, every bit of it. "You're going to have to trust me and let me make some decisions. I'll get you to Stonebrook Cottage and your mother, okay? I'll do what she says in her letter."

  They nodded, Henry brushing at the tears on his thin cheeks. Lillian was solemn, very pale.

  Kara hugged them both, squeezing hard, smelling the rancidness of their fear. The hell with everything. She had to get them safely to Stonebrook Cottage and their mother and stay one step ahead of anyone who might be after them—no matter the reason, good, bad, real or imagined.

  She couldn't believe she was cutting out on Sam Temple, Texas Ranger.

  She smiled suddenly, and she noticed how reassured her godchildren looked now that she was taking charge—and they were getting their way. Well, what else could she do?

  "Let me throw a few things together," she told them.
"Then we're out of here."

  Five

  Pete Jericho regarded the stripped logs piled on the edge of the gravel pit with satisfaction. He'd always liked work he could see getting done. Finish one job, move on to the next. Hard, physical work suited him. He squinted up at the hazy August sky, the humidity on the rise, seeping in from the south. He had a lot of work to get done before the first killing frost. Maybe keeping himself busy would put in check his anger and frustration—his sense of loss since Allyson had stepped up to the governorship.

  Stupid to fall in love with her in the first place. He'd known it years ago, when he'd see her and Lawrence up at the Stockwell place, around town. She was a few years older than Pete, but that never mattered to him. After Lawrence died, Allyson was so overwhelmed and quiet, and Pete realized what he felt wasn't just an infatuation. He was truly in love with her.

  But Madeleine Stockwell had recognized it before Allyson did—maybe even before he did—and that was his undoing.

  He started back to his truck, knowing there was no point in trying to blame Madeleine for his current predicament. Even without the prison record, he suspected Allyson would want to keep their relationship secret. He was the blue-collar guy down the road. He lived on the family homestead and worked with his father chopping wood. The Jericho family had been working their land for seven generations. They used to dairy farm, but now they scraped together a living cutting wood, growing Christmas trees, leasing hay fields to the few dairy farmers left in the area, raising chickens and sheep. Bea Jericho, Pete's mother, handled the chickens and sheep. She was talking about getting some goats and making her own goat cheese, something Pete's father wasn't too keen on.

  But these days they earned the bulk of their money managing other people's property, the trophy country houses rich part-time residents built on ten-acre mini-estates carved out of land once owned by people like Charlie and Bea Jericho.

  Pete knew his parents didn't know about him and Allyson. Otherwise they'd have said something. Just as well, because it looked as if he'd been dumped; she didn't even plan to call and tell him. He was supposed to figure it out. An affair with Allyson Lourdes Stock-well, lieutenant governor, was difficult enough. Now that she was governor, it was impossible.