Her knees buckled at the sexy undertone of his words, but she still had one hand on her suitcase and leaned on it to regain her balance. He didn't seem to notice. He was concentrating on her misdeeds, not her reaction to him. At her brother's house, after the Gordon Temple opening, last night, now—it didn't matter when she saw him. Her reaction was powerful, impossible to ignore. She noticed everything about him, the black eyes, the hard body, the straightforward, no-nonsense way he went about his life. Sam was a man who knew his own mind and didn't bother to pretend otherwise, for anyone, for any reason. People liked him, women loved him—but Kara suspected very few people really knew Sam Temple.
She dipped into her tote bag and produced the fully loaded magazine. "I put you and Jack—and Susanna— in an untenable position. I'm sorry."
"They understand. You put those kids ahead of everything, including your good judgment." His eyes softened unexpectedly, and the hardness of his mouth relented slightly. "I understand, too."
He racked the gun, and Kara shuddered at the metallic sound of a bullet entering the chamber. She scooped up her suitcase. "You're just being nice now because you have my gun."
"I'll sleep better, that's for sure."
Ten
As was her custom, Madeleine Stockwell cornered Pete a few minutes after he arrived at her place. She called him over to the stone patio, where she sat at a table sorting through dozens of brightly colored zinnias and asters. She had on flowered garden gloves and snipped the ends of the flowers one by one with her ancient clippers. Pete didn't know why she and his father didn't get along. They were both tighter than ticks.
She didn't look half-bad for eighty years old. She had on one of her country-manor outfits—navy-and-white stripe top, white pants, white flats—and sighed at Pete without looking up. "I suppose you've heard that Henry and Lillian are with Kara Galway at Stonebrook Cottage. Hatch finally told me about their little escapade last night. It's all around town by now, I presume?"
Pete shrugged. "Not really."
"Allyson's behavior is inexplicable to me. She should be here soon. Hatch insists I'm not to go over to the cottage—she wants to see the children first."
Madeleine snipped off two inches from a pink zinnia with surprising force given her bony hands. "If she'd told me what was going on, I might have been able to help. Suppose they'd come here? I'd have been taken completely by surprise."
"You'd have handled it," Pete said. "I imagine Allyson and Hatch decided it was best to keep this thing under wraps. They probably know more than we do—"
"Hatch? This wasn't his decision. His job is to advise Allyson, yes, but he complies with her wishes. Always. She says jump, he says how high."
"Ah, come on, Mrs. Stockwell, he'd be no good as an adviser if he didn't speak his mind. You're just pissed because you were cut out of the loop."
She scoffed, but said nothing. Pete didn't know why Madeleine told him things, but she always had, even when he'd come up here as a teenager to mow the lawn and wash windows. Charlie said it was because she didn't have any friends. Nobody else would listen to her. After Pete got out of jail, she picked up where they'd left off before he'd slipped up and she'd had to teach him his place. She wouldn't have had to do anything overt, just letting the right people know that Pete Jericho was serving time would please her no end.
He wondered what she'd do if she found out he and her son's widow had made love within sight of her din-ing-room window.
"I don't like being treated like some loose-lipped old woman who can't be trusted," she said half under her breath.
"Maybe they just didn't want to upset you."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, you'd think I'd never dealt with a crisis before. I watched my husband bleed to death right out there on the lawn." She pointed with her clippers. "I'm not a weakling."
"I don't doubt it, but if the kids ran away from the ranch and made their way to Austin, then up here, it had to be for a reason. Allyson's their mother. Let her figure out what's going on."
Madeleine shot him an unfriendly look, her blue eyes reminding him what a force of nature she must have been fifty years ago. Beautiful, sexy, willful, a survivor, according to everyone who knew her then, Charlie and Bea Jericho included. "You always take Allyson's side."
"I'm not taking anyone's side. Why'd they light out for Kara's, do you know?"
"You don't think anyone bothered to tell me the details, do you? They've always been close to Kara. I thought it might be different after she moved away, but apparently not."
Pete shrugged. "Texas isn't on the moon." He smiled, ready to get to work. "Come on, Mrs. Stock-well. You're being hard on everyone. Just be glad the kids are all right—"
"Oh? Just be glad they're all right? I see. I suppose that's what would have happened at your house. Charlie and Bea always let you run wild. I happen to consider this an appalling situation. My grandchildren are now runaways."
"Ah, they'll be fine. You don't want them to be a couple of Goody Two-shoes."
She set down her clippers and peeled off her gloves. "You're impertinent, Pete Jericho. You and your father both. I don't know why I keep finding work for you to do."
Pete grinned at her. "Because the place'd fall down around your ears if we didn't come up here and help out."
"You don't think I could take care of it by myself?"
"No one could."
She sighed deeply, gazing out at the beautiful lawn and gardens. "My father-in-law bought this place with the fantasy that he and his children could be self-suffi-cient out here. My husband was never happier than when he was working this land." She smiled at Pete then. "Perhaps that's why I keep you busy. Watching you work reminds me of him."
Pete felt a pang of sympathy for her. Edward Stock-well had been the love of her life, no matter how many husbands and lovers she'd had since his death. "Mrs. Stockwell, I need to be getting to work—"
"Yes, yes, go off now that the old woman's getting maudlin. Stop and talk to Billie first. She's down by the pool. She's planning a cocktail party I'm having. I want to get people back up here, enjoying themselves, as soon as possible. They need to put the gas can explosion and Mike Parisi's death out of their minds."
"They were both accidents—"
She looked up at him, cool. "I know that."
Billie had arranged the bonfire party, where the explosion had occurred, but even Madeleine, apparently, didn't hold her responsible for the accident. All the papers had reported that Pete had saved Allyson and the kids. That, he knew, didn't sit well with old Madeleine.
He headed down the stone steps to the pool, where Billie was plopped on a lounge chair with her clipboard, markers and a soda. She grinned up at him. "Madeleine gripe to you about those kids? She forgets she's a million years old. She'd have had a frigging heart attack if she'd known her grandchildren were on the loose. She doesn't know how to show it, but she loves them." She took a drink of her soda. "You know Kara has those little shits at Stonebrook Cottage?"
Pete nodded. "That's what Madeleine told me."
"I don't know what they were thinking. Kara might be a defense attorney, but she's also a kick-ass Texan. They're lucky she didn't throw them in the klink down there."
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, not wanting Billie to read anything into his expression. Neither Kara nor Allyson was a good subject with him right now. "Madeleine said you wanted to talk to me about something?"
"Right, yeah." She shot to her feet in a sudden burst of energy. "This cocktail party—I originally thought I'd do a bonfire, but that's out because of the accident on the Fourth. Madeleine totally freaked when I even mentioned it. Man, that was a close call." She gave a mock shudder, a gleam in her blue eyes. "Can't be blowing up the guests, right?"
"Billie—Jesus."
"Sorry." But she didn't seem that embarrassed. "I guess I'm an all's-well-that-ends-well type. Anyway, I'm wondering about stringing lights around the pool. You know, those little white Christmas lights. I c
an get 'em for a buck or two down at the junk store. And can-dles—I'd like to do those candles in paper bags. What're they called?"
"Luminaria," Pete said.
She laughed and jabbed him in the stomach playfully. "Big word for a blue-collar guy. Think you can help me out?"
Her enthusiasm was contagious. "Sure. Just let me know what you need."
"I will." She beamed up at him. "Thanks."
After that, he got to work. He needed to patch a retaining wall out by the barn. As he walked across the sloping lawn, he pictured himself out here on a dark night, sneaking through the tall, dew-soaked grass in the fields. The barn was painted red, its tall windows looking out on the fields and woods. It wasn't that fancy, just a loft and a big open room downstairs with a separate bedroom and bathroom. But the views were spectacular, and everything inside gleamed, expensive, always spotless.
Pete examined the retaining wall and headed back up to his truck to unload what he needed. Allyson would be here soon, but today wasn't about him. It was about the kids and why they'd run away. If Allyson asked his opinion, he'd give it—he'd tell her to ask them about the tree house. But if she didn't, he'd stay out of it.
Hatch and Madeleine both protested her decision to walk over to Stonebrook Cottage alone, but Allyson didn't care. The state troopers responsible for her security weren't pleased, either. They were all gathered on the patio, the air still and humid, adding to her sense of tension. If she didn't stand her ground now, nothing she said from here on out would carry any weight. She'd be rolled at every turn, ignored, dismissed. She'd be a puppet for operators and handlers and those who didn't like to work out in the open. Everyone would assume she'd finish out Big Mike's term and disappear into obscurity. If she couldn't establish her authority in matters that affected her own children, what could she do?
Henry and Lillian needed her. She was going to them. Alone.
"I intend to walk through the woods as I have hundreds of times before I took the oath of office, and will again hundreds of times after I leave office." She spoke clearly, firmly, without a hint of the anxiety burning through her. "I'll carry my pager and cell phone. If I need help, I'll let you know."
Hatch made a sour face while his mother, sitting across from him, oiled her clippers, pretending she really wasn't a part of this discussion.
Allyson sighed. "It'll take me fifteen minutes. I'll buzz you when I get there."
Hatch almost snarled at her. "Allyson, for the love of God. Mike's only been dead for two weeks."
She understood his concern, but she needed to see Kara, and especially her children, alone, without an escort, without any reminders of her new role as governor. "Trust me, if I fall and hit my head on a rock, the state of Connecticut will survive. I'm wasting time. I'll be back before too long."
She walked off the patio, across the sloping lawn to the fields and woods that would lead her straight to Stonebrook Cottage. She ached to see her kids. She didn't care who she had to thwart to do it her way. She could feel Madeleine's steely, disapproving stare. Five minutes back in Bluefield, and her mother-in-law had already tripped her inadequacy switch. She was being childish, foolish, reckless. She wasn't good enough for Lawrence—if she weren't so selfish, she'd have realized something was wrong sooner and gotten him to a doctor, found the cancer when there was still hope.
Madeleine never actually said as much. She didn't have to.
"Wait up," Hatch called.
But Allyson didn't slacken her pace. He caught up with her, breathing hard, his graying auburn hair matted to his forehead, the steeliness in his eyes reminding her both of Lawrence and his mother.
He softened. "Go on. Walk to the cottage on your own. I'll take care of it. Everyone's extra-cautious after what happened to Mike, that's all."
"I know." Some of the energy went out of her anger. "Please make sure the troopers know it's not them. I trust them completely—"
"They know, Allyson. It's not a problem."
Her gait faltered as she thought about how long Hatch had been at her side, smoothing the way for her, taking care of things. "God, Hatch, what would I do without you?"
"You'd manage. You're a survivor—you're like my mother in that way."
She smiled. "I ought to smack you for that."
But he wasn't smiling, and she realized how different they were—he in his slacks and jacket, she in her jeans and UConn basketball shirt. Hatch had found very little comfort in having Henry and Lillian turn up at Stonebrook Cottage with their godmother. "If there's anything I can do, you've only to call," he said.
She thanked him, then set off across a stretch of soft, sloping lawn, almost running when she came to the retaining wall and spotted Pete. She'd seen his truck in the driveway but had pushed all thought of him to the back of her mind. She had to stay focused on her children.
He stood up from his wheelbarrow, dust on his muscled thighs, everything about him scuffed and worn and hardworking. He had tawny hair, the darkest, bluest eyes. Her breath caught whenever she saw him and had, secretly, for years—why was she the last person to know he had fallen for her? She was the blond, blue-eyed doctor's daughter from New Haven who'd married a Stockwell twenty years older than she was, and now all she wanted, everything she craved, was a man four years younger than she was, who had a minor but undeniable criminal record and had never graduated college much less gone to law school.
"Hey, Allyson," he said.
Pete didn't seem to notice how unsettled she felt to see him. Sweat glistened on his tanned arms and face, a black bandanna was tied over the top of his head. His jeans hung low on his hips.
Your blue-collar, ex-con lover.
The burning sensation in her stomach worsened. Why had she insisted on keeping their affair secret in the first place? The caller would have no room to maneuver if she hadn't.
"I saw your truck but didn't realize you were down here," she said, sounding ridiculously formal even to herself.
"Just finishing up this wall for Madeleine." His eyes narrowed, probing her with a sudden seriousness. Most people underestimated him, Allyson thought. They never saw this side of him. She remembered this same kind of mature gravity when he'd saved her and the kids on the Fourth of July. "I heard about Henry and Lillian. They okay?"
Allyson nodded. "I'm on my way to see them now."
"Word's getting out—"
"It's bound to, but I hope the media won't pounce on this one. Henry and Lillian are only eleven and twelve—it'd be unfair to plaster their names all over the news."
"People'll want to know why they didn't have 24/7 protection."
"Because they didn't—and don't—need it unless there's a specific reason. There wasn't one." Her voice quaked, and she fought sudden tears. "I have to go."
Pete leaned against a long-handled shovel. "What about you? Are you okay?"
"Yes," she said without thinking. "I wish—" She choked back tears, lowered her voice. "I wish you could go with me, but that's not…you can't."
He lifted his shovel and drove it into the ground as if she hadn't spoken. Pete was a man, Allyson knew, who heard what he wanted to hear. "Tell those rascals I can put them to work if they get bored and want to skip town again."
She hesitated, watching him as he refocused on his work, and she knew he was giving her this chance to escape. He wouldn't press her about their relationship, not now—but he had to be wondering. And he had a right to know where he stood. Here it was, two weeks since she'd become governor, and she still didn't know what to do about Pete Jericho. She just knew that her body and soul ached for him. As she left him to his work, she felt a stab of loneliness, worse, even, than in the first months after Lawrence died—maybe because it was so unnecessary, a self-inflicted pain.
She climbed over the stone wall and strode out across the field, through tall grass and black-eyed Su-sans, and finally into the woods, onto an old, overgrown logging road. It was flanked by stone walls and a light, young forest, birches swaying in the
gentle breeze. She followed it down a hill, to a stream that was low and muddy this time of year. She jumped across it, landing in a squishy patch of wet moss and mud. The mosquitoes found her.
Off in the woods, a woodpecker banged at a tree, and it occurred to Allyson that she was alone. Alone, unfettered, on her way to see her children and one of her closest friends. She smiled at the normalcy of the moment.
Eleven
Sam nursed his third cup of black coffee that morning and listened to Kara on the phone, explaining herself to her big brother. She'd scowled at Sam a couple of times and motioned for him to go into the living room, but he stayed put at his spot at the kitchen table. He doubted she had the oomph to move. She'd pitched her cookies at the crack of dawn. He'd heard her and had offered his assistance, and she'd told him to go to hell.
Except for the shakes, she seemed okay now. She'd had two bowls of oatmeal for breakfast.
The coffee must have been sitting on the shelf, opened, for a year. It was lousy.
Kara had assured Jack she was no longer in possession of his .45, but took the opportunity to remind him that she did, indeed, know how to shoot. Also that she was a lawyer. Thirty-four. On her own since she was eighteen. Perfectly capable of making decisions without his input.
At a guess, Jack was as persuaded as Sam was, which was hardly at all, because Kara was missing the point. People in their right minds didn't act the way she had since the Stockwell kids had turned up missing. That meant either she wasn't in her right mind or she hadn't told them even close to everything. Sam was betting on the latter. She was like her brother in that regard. The two of them were hard-headed and utterly sane, but also close-mouthed and very protective of those they loved. There was no question that Kara loved Henry and Lillian Stockwell, heirs to the Stockwell fortune, the minor children of the governor of Connecticut, the two towheads who'd gasped when they met Sam and asked him if he planned to arrest them.
Kara handed the phone across the table. "Jack wants to talk to you." She stood in the kitchen, arms folded under her breasts. She had on stretchy black yoga pants and an oversize white shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves that seemed to emphasize the shape of her wrists and the length of her fingers.
Stonebrook Cottage Page 12