"Don't bother with that. I just hope there's some way to salvage that truck. It doesn't belong to me. I rented it."
"Maybe it was insured. I'll make arrangements for the owner to come out and pick it up. We'll work something out. Don't worry about it, okay?"
Melinda nodded and swallowed a bite of food. "It's Joan I'm most concerned about."
"Of course you are. We all are. I'm just thankful you came out of this mess in one piece. I don't think I could have taken any more bad news." Preston dropped his head into his hands, which became buried in his tousled dark hair. "It's nice to have you here, Melinda. I can use the moral support."
His words sounded sincere enough, and Melinda desperately wanted to believe him. But, somehow, she sensed that her presence here troubled more than comforted him. If only he would look at her instead of the floor.
"Preston, I have a feeling there's a lot more you might be able to tell me about Joan. And you. About your marriage. I know you've been avoiding it so far. Why not level with me now?"
He looked miserable, downtrodden, as he looked up and shrugged. "You and Joan might not resemble each other, but you're alike in one way. You're both stubborn. You don't quit until you get what you want, do you?"
Preston rubbed his already bloodshot eyes. Exhaustion caused him to slump down into the chair. When he at last spoke, his voice was hoarse and tired.
"When Joan and I met last summer, I hadn't been out of the military very long. I was real lonely, you see. I had spent most of my time with the special services in Afghanistan. Before that, it was Iraq. I was sent to all the hot spots. You can guess what that life was like."
"Not really." Melinda tried to sound sympathetic. "But I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Yeah. Well. It was what it was." Preston shifted his weight in the chair. "Mac was irritated with me for joining up in the first place — for not coming back here and using my veterinary degree from the very beginning. But — I don't know what got into me. I wanted to see the world first, have some adventure. That sort of thing."
"Sounds like Joan."
"Yeah. Exactly. Heck, I never really knew what I wanted. Neither did she. Mac was lucky. He always knew what was right for him. He knew he wanted to stay right here with the ranch. He loves this ranch. As for me — I don't think Mac has ever tried to understand me. He wasn't very happy with me, even when I did come back. I was…"
Preston shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "I was confused, and Joan was so — pretty. But it turned out, after we were married, that she wasn't exactly — what I thought she was."
He glanced up at Melinda, watching closely for her reaction. She tried to appear unruffled. It was the best strategy to keep him talking.
"You said you wanted the whole story," he added, somewhat defensively.
"I'm still listening." But Melinda reassured herself that it was only his side of the story.
"From the first time we met, she seemed to think I was wonderful. I thought she was pretty terrific, too. Getting married right away seemed to be the thing to do. At the time."
Melinda's fears last summer that Joan had acted too hastily apparently were justified. Her heart twisted as she recalled Joan's letters over the past year. They had been filled with light chatter, and — Melinda realized — contrived happiness. Poor Joan. She had been too proud to admit she had made a mistake. Joan had made so many mistakes.
"When did the honeymoon end?" Melinda asked gently.
Preston flashed a cynical smile. "A few months later. Oh, it didn't happen all at once. It started when Joan got involved with playing the horses. She was hooked. Obsessed. Finally, it got to the point that every time we went to the races, she was always after me for more money to wager. Then she started going to the casinos. After the summer racing season was over, she was always nagging me to take her to 'Vegas. She couldn't stop herself. It was awful."
As he spoke, he avoided looking at Melinda. And did she imagine that he seemed to choke on the words? Melinda smothered a hot retort in Joan's defense.
"Then what happened?" she prodded.
"Mac was furious with us both. He refused to let me withdraw anything from our business account without his approval. So I hired a lawyer to fight him."
"You hired a lawyer to fight your own brother?" Melinda was unable to hide her shock.
"Well. Yeah. I love Joannie, you see. She was threatening to leave me unless I supplied her with more gambling money. Half of this ranch belongs to me, you know, even though our father left Mac in charge when he died. I shouldn't have to ask my brother for money. Not when this spread is as much mine as it is his. Mac was always chewing on me. Joan was on my back. Our lawyers got into the picture. I hated it!"
"So you led Mac to believe that what was happening was Joannie's fault," Melinda said coldly.
"But it was!" Preston's eyes blazed resentment, and this time he looked fully into Melinda's face. "I know she's your sister. But you've got to believe me."
This information painted Joan in such an ugly light that Melinda's heart was breaking. She wished her sister could be here, to tell her version — to explain, while pleading with those plaintive blue eyes of hers, that she might have made a few mistakes. But they weren't that bad. And she didn't really mean to do it, whatever it was.
But Melinda was thinking of Joannie the child, not a sister who by now should have grown up. Oh, Joan.
Preston grimaced. His voice trembled as he went on. "But I still care for her — a lot. I swear to you, Melinda. I don't know where she is. I don't know why this happened. I'm all out of ideas. Now I'm asking you. Do you have any?"
He watched Melinda, as if imploring her for an answer. She didn't know what to say. Truthfully, she expected the answers to come from him, from this place.
Suddenly, she had no appetite and she pushed the breakfast tray aside. Based on Preston's story, the person with the most motive for wanting Joan out of the way so far was Mac.
But what did she really know about Preston?
She examined him more closely. Melinda could understand Joan's attraction for this tall, handsome, and seemingly rich young rancher. Preston represented any young girl's image of ideal romantic love.
In reality, though, Joan probably knew very little about him even after she married him.
"Tell me the truth, Preston. Had you two been fighting before she disappeared?"
It would be so like Joan to leave in a mad fit, if spurred by harsh words. But Melinda couldn't believe her sister would stay away this long without at least contacting someone. Joan was never one to hold a grudge.
"Preston?"
"Yes," he finally admitted. "We were pretty — nasty — to each other that day."
That's not what he had told her over the phone. Maybe it was just a little fib, but Melinda wasn't going to forget he was capable of deception.
"You have to understand," Preston continued. "We always were arguing about — that."
"About what?"
"Her gambling."
Melinda fidgeted with a corner of the bedspread. She wanted so badly to believe that this, too, was a lie. But even Joan's letters to some extent backed up his story. They always centered on racing and the track, as though that particular form of excitement was her only outlet in life.
Preston stood abruptly. "That's enough for now. Your breakfast is getting cold. I'll be back later to take you downstairs and show you around."
Melinda obediently toyed with the food until Preston was out of sight. Then, again shoving the tray aside, Melinda stood and donned the clothes Harriet had laid out for her.
The housekeeper had done her best to clean and mend them. But the stained travel suit was hardly appropriate to wear here. Melinda knew that her sister's regular clothes would be far too small for her to even try on. These would have to do until she had the opportunity to buy more.
Melinda stood before a full‑length mirror as she pulled a brush through the stubborn tangles of her long hair.
She noticed gratefully that the worst injury, the swelling in her bruised eye, was almost gone.
She still was not very presentable. But compared to the muddy, bedraggled creature Mac had fished out of the water, there was a vast improvement.
The light tapping at the door announced that Preston was back. When Melinda greeted him, he was smiling as if that melancholy conversation of minutes before had never taken place.
"Ready to go downstairs?" he asked cheerfully. Seeing that she was dressed, he added: "Good."
As he took her arm, Melinda felt foolish accepting his assistance. A good night's sleep had done wonders to bolster her strength. After they descended the stairs, Preston led her into a huge living room decorated with heavy antique furniture and throw rugs strewn over a recently polished, hardwood floor. The room was attractive, but its immensity made Melinda feel uncomfortable.
"Where is everyone?" she asked.
To her chagrin, Preston misread her motive for asking the question.
"If you mean Mac — you won't find him in here this time of day. He was up hours ago. He spends all his time outside with the horses."
Preston chattered on, volunteering information Melinda had absolutely no interest in. "My brother is — dedicated. You have to give him that. No woman has ever won out over his work yet. In fact, no one has even come close."
"Why would any woman in her right mind even want to try?"
Melinda pointedly turned her attention back to the living room. It was plain that Joan had not been allowed a hand in the decorating. It was a man's house. The multi‑colored brown and beige carpeting and heavy oak, ranch‑style furniture gave a feeling of solid comfort. But there were no floral arrangements or other feminine touches.
"Wouldn't you like to see the library?" Preston suggested.
He led her down the hall and into a room filled with hundreds of volumes lining the bookcases. Books and magazines about horses and racing were in a section nearest to her. The opposite wall contained a glass case loaded with trophies won at horse racing events and shows.
With a wave of his hand, Preston dismissed the trade books and trophies.
"That probably wouldn't interest you," he said. "Over there is the fiction."
Melinda joined Preston at the opposite side of the library, where he peered at the shelves as if seeing those particular books for the first time.
"Joan's," he said shortly. "I never paid much attention to them before."
His eyes scanned the titles hungrily as he read. "Love in the Spring, The Fantasy World of Mary Harper, Arms of Destiny..."
Preston reached out and thumbed through a novel that seemed typical of Joan's tastes as Melinda remembered them — oriented towards love and adventure. Preston half smiled to himself as he scanned the pages, and paused over some of the passages.
"I never realized," he said, half to himself. "Joan was — is — quite a romantic."
Melinda watched Preston's tender expression as he eagerly grasped the book, almost as if he hoped to find Joan by perusing words she had once read. It seemed rather late for a husband to discover something as important about his wife as her reading tastes.
Melinda found herself thinking that even her sister's friends knew Joan better than her own mate. Suddenly, she had an idea.
"Preston!" she exclaimed.
He looked up from the book as she touched his shoulder in her eagerness.
"What about Joan's friends she was traveling with when she moved here? Are they still around here?"
He nodded. "We're in touch. They're both still working in Ruidoso, in fact. But I wouldn't get too excited, if I were you. I've talked to them already. They don't know anything."
He slammed the book he was holding shut, and put it back on the shelf. "They used to visit here — quite often, in fact. Did you know Debbie and Connie?"
Melinda tried to quell her negative feelings. She remembered them only as irresponsible, immature airheads who had lured Joan away from college to join them in their stupid adventure.
"I met them once."
She recalled, too, that during those travels Joan's so‑called friends had helped deplete her sister's share of their parents' trust money meant for schooling. Joan now had no easy means of returning to college. Preston watched Melinda, and must have seen the dark thoughts mirrored in her face.
"You're probably thinking that if Joan had never let herself get talked into leaving college, she would have never met me. And none of this would have happened."
Melinda half shrugged, making no comment. Of course she felt that way. But dwelling on the past wasn't doing her any good. What she needed right now was a clue — a place to start.
"Maybe Debbie and Connie are overlooking something," Melinda said hopefully. "Those two had a lot of influence on Joan, as you well know."
"Believe me, Melinda. I, of all people, know that. It never changed."
Preston's weary tone alerted her. She turned to face him. "You said they came here often. Did they have some reason? Other than friendship, I mean."
"Debbie had her own reasons." He looked at Melinda meaningfully, but her blank expression must have shown she did not understand the implication. Preston sighed.
"Well — it's like this. Personally I don't understand it, but some women seem to think Mac has a certain kind of gruff charm. Debbie, for instance."
Melinda let that one pass. She was eager to contact the girls as soon as possible. Melinda noticed a telephone on the desk, and reached for it.
"I'll borrow your phone and call right now to see when we can get together."
"Sorry. The flood washed out all our telephone lines. Service will be out for a couple of weeks, at least." Preston hesitated. "Tell you what. If you promise to take care of yourself, I'll make you a deal. In a couple of days, we'll be taking some horses in to Ruidoso for the races. Then I'll personally take you to see the girls. Maybe as Joan's sister you'll be able to think of something we overlooked. You realize the sheriff has already questioned them thoroughly. But if it will make you feel better..."
"Yes!" Melinda responded. "At least I'll be doing something!"
"Okay," Preston agreed. "We have plenty of room at our cabin. You can plan on staying there when we go."
"Thank you," Melinda said, unable to avoid a tone of dismissal.
Now that she had a plan in place, she wanted to be alone. She selected a book at random and pretended to browse through it. Preston took the hint.
"Well, I have work to do. I'd better get busy before Mac comes in here to remind me of my responsibilities. He's good at that."
Preston sounded sulky, almost like a teenager instead of a full‑grown man. As he stalked from the room, Melinda decided that perhaps he and Joan were well‑matched after all — at least, in terms of their mutual immaturity.
Theirs had to be a stormy marriage. Melinda couldn't help but wonder. How much understanding had Joan received from Preston or Mac in this male‑dominated world?
She thoughtfully closed the book she held. Already, she was making excuses for her sister. The story of her life. But if she intended to solve this mystery, she must stay open to the facts — even if they cast Joan in a bad light.
The morning dragged on. Melinda settled into an armchair and attempted to escape into the pages of a National Geographic. But somehow the plight of the citizens in Sri Lanka paled in comparison to her own.
At one point, she found she had been staring at a page without really seeing the words for a good while. Finally, she walked over to a window and morosely stared outside as the sheer curtain billowed out in the breeze.
She felt herself growing listless and bored. Would this day never end? She couldn't wait for darkness to fall, so she could meet with Sammy. She wasn't expecting too much from him, though. Surely if he knew where Joan was, he already would have told someone.
She turned and looked wistfully at the telephone on the desk. She thought about Perry, who right now seemed like the only friend she had in
the world. She knew he was bound to wonder what had happened to her, since she had been unable to call as promised.
Well, at least she could send him a letter. She slid open the desk drawer and found some old-fashioned stationery, with slightly yellowed pages indicating it hadn't been touched for a long time. Then she sat and wrote down the events of the last week, trying to downplay her adventures to avoid alarming Perry. She had just finished sealing the envelope when she heard the sound of someone clearing his throat behind her.
When she turned, she saw Mac standing there, laden with packages. Her heart leaped involuntarily as he spoke.
"Your clothes were ruined in the flood. I didn't think you could make the trip to town just yet, so I — uh — bought you a few things."
He dumped the packages in a nearby chair, as he looked at the letter in Melinda's hand.
"Do you need something mailed? Here. I'll take care of it."
He took the letter, frowned down at the name, then turned and retreated out the library door before she even had the chance to say "thank you."
Curious, she hurried over to the chair and began to sort through the packages. They contained several pairs of Levis and blouses. He must have known her sizes from the damaged clothes.
At that moment, she heard shouting outside the window.
"Mac!" It was Preston. "Come here! Quick!"
The urgency in Preston's voice made Melinda dash to the window and peer outside. She saw Mac and Preston running toward a series of corrals, where some of the livestock were kept. A small crowd of workers gathered in a semi-circle there.
Melinda hurried outside and pushed her way into the group of onlookers. First, she saw the enraged bull tossing its horned head with its lethal sharp prongs. Several ropes had been tossed around the animal, and about five cowboys leaned back against the bindings in an effort to subdue the crazed beast.
Then she spotted Sammy's bloodied body inside the corral. Preston knelt beside him. And standing by him was a red-headed man who by the looks of the medicine bag he held must have been Preston's assistant. Mac, too, stood looking down. His face was white.
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