by Stacy Finz
“Rope?” He grinned at her. “I do it all the time. But on the real thing. Calves. It’s in the job description.”
“I guess it must be,” she said, and took the chair next to him. “Eat your fruit salad. It’s good for you.”
He speared one of the strawberries and before she could protest, fed it to her. “How come you and your husband broke up?”
“You cut right to the chase, don’t you, cowboy?”
“If you don’t want to answer, don’t answer. But I have to admit I’m curious. After all you’ve been through . . . he should’ve stuck around. You should’ve been a team.”
“He did stick around,” she said, and her voice grew soft. “He probably would’ve stayed forever if I’d let him. But I was slowly killing him with my grief and my—” She let out a deep sigh. “Unfortunately, in marriages where parents lose a child, divorce is common. A year after we split up, he met a wonderful woman at work. She helped him through his sorrow, helped him reclaim his life, and I thank God for her every day.”
“And what about you? Who’s helping you through your sorrow?” Clay asked, sensing that there was more to this story than Emily was letting on. Only a saint could be that generous. Or someone truly beaten down.
“I’ve actually started attending a small crime victims group in Reno. I’ve only been to one meeting so far, but it was goo—” She stopped herself. “It was beneficial. For a long time, I resisted going, afraid that it would be like giving up. Most of these people have loved ones who were murdered. It’s . . . It’s different for me.”
“You’re a victim, Emily. Some son of a bitch took that beautiful girl of yours and left you in limbo. But that doesn’t mean you’re giving up. On the contrary, you’re getting strong. For your daughter and for when they catch the bastard. When’s your next meeting?”
“A week from Friday.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that alone. Want me to take you?”
She gave him a watery smile. “That’s very nice of you. But I have to do this on my own. Clay, will you be honest about something with me? Do you think most people here know? I can’t believe no one has recognized me. Drew and I were on TV, in the newspapers, even in the tabloids, a whole lot.”
“I sure didn’t know,” he said. But he’d also been on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf. “Some might. People here like to gossip, mostly out of boredom. But at the same time, this is the kind of town that has its people’s backs. If they consider you one of them, then you’re family, meaning they can talk shit about you, but no one else can. If it’s any consolation, I haven’t heard a word. And I’m typically in the pipeline.”
“Why’s that?”
“McCreedys were one of the founding families of Nugget. People tell me stuff. And unfortunately, thanks to my late wife, we’ve become a major topic of discussion.”
“About the car accident?” Emily asked.
“Yeah. So what do you know about it?” Not that he needed to ask. The fact that his wife had been stepping out on him seemed to be front page news.
“All I know is that there is controversy surrounding her death. You don’t have to tell me anything, Clay. I, more than anyone, understand the need for privacy.”
“Our marriage stopped being private a long time ago. The thing about Jennifer is she liked to do everything on a stage.” Clay lifted his glass. “Could I have some more of this lemonade? It’s good, not too sweet.”
“Of course.” She got up to go to the refrigerator. “Were you very much in love with her?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then thought, why pretend? “I met her while attending the naval academy when I was just twenty-one—fresh off the farm. She was so beautiful that everywhere she went she turned heads. She was also a sex-crazed nympho. So, yeah, I fell instantly in love with her. But there were early red flags. Despite the intensity of Annapolis and how hard I had to work to make the cut, she demanded attention twenty-four seven. I always had to prove my love for her—shit like her threatening to throw herself in front of a bus if I didn’t meet her at such and such bar at that very moment. Studying for finals be damned.
“Someone older and wiser would’ve run for the hills,” he continued. “And I started to, believe you me. But she got pregnant with Justin about the time I was headed to Pensacola for flight training. So I did what any officer and gentleman would do under those circumstances. I married her. The hope being that a baby would calm her down.”
“Did it?” Emily asked, bringing him the lemonade and taking back her seat.
“It only got worse. After Justin was born, she became obsessed with getting her figure back, constantly testing my attraction to her.” This typically consisted of her provoking him by letting other men flirt with her. Sometimes it was more sexually overt than a mere flirtation.
“But I was so smitten with my son that I put up with it,” he said. “A part of me felt sorry for her. She’d grown up in a strict home. Her father was so busy working his way through navy politics to make admiral, and her mother was so busy being the woman behind the man, that they ignored her. The poor girl was starved for affection and attention.”
Emily said, “I’m guessing that your wartime responsibilities only exacerbated the situation.”
Had it ever.
He let out a weary laugh. “By the time we got stationed in Miramar our marriage had become untenable. I think she got pregnant with Cody to keep me from leaving her. Those two boys were the lights of my life. So when we invaded Afghanistan and I got shipped out, there was no way I could divorce her. I needed to know she’d be waiting there with my sons.”
“Was she?” Emily wanted to know.
“Yeah. She’d made a nice life for herself there in San Diego.” Screwing everything in pants. “But I’m enormously beholden to her. As young as she was, she raised those boys by herself. That’s the most important job I can think of. And you’re right; being away for so long was rough on the marriage. It is for any marriage, but especially for a wife whose insecurities bordered on psychotic. On my short leaves home all I wanted to do was spend time with my family, dote on my babies. But she wanted me all for herself. Can you imagine being jealous of toddlers—your own flesh and blood? The scenes she made when I wanted to take time away from her to play with Justin and Cody made those boys cower in fear every time I came home.”
“From what you’re describing, I’m thinking she needed professional help,” Emily said.
“Yup,” he responded. “We did that. Doctors put her on antidepressants.”
“Did they make a difference?”
Maybe if she hadn’t stopped taking them. She complained that the medication deadened her sex drive. He didn’t think a T-34 tank could have done that.
Clay just shrugged. “I was gone most of the time. When the boys got old enough, my dad used to fly to San Diego and take them back to the ranch to give her a break. I wanted them to spend time with their grandfather and on the land that was their heritage. He was a tough old cowboy, not a touchy-feely guy by any stretch, but kids loved him and he loved kids.
“When he died that was it for me,” Clay continued, remembering the shock of the news like it was yesterday. “I’d put in way more than my required years of service and it was time to come home. I also thought it would be a perfect opportunity for Jen and me to work on our marriage and put our family back on track.”
“Yes,” Emily acknowledged, “this is a good place for healing.”
“Not for her. Just like in the song, she was a midnight girl in a sunset town. She wanted me to sell.”
Emily gasped, and he gave her a doleful smile. “Clearly that wasn’t going to happen. And for a while she tried to make the best of it, mostly playing the role of society queen, which you can imagine went over in Nugget as well as a Neiman Marcus department store. You can dress us up in a pair of ostrich-skin boots, but McCreedys have always been ranchers. Plain and simple.”
“But she had this gorgeous business.” Emily
turned her gaze around the barn, Clay watching her take in the pretty details.
“Jen liked beautiful things. When we got here, the homes at Sierra Heights, a fancy subdivision down the road that has since gone belly-up, had just been completed and they needed a decorator to furnish the models.” Or so Russ Johnson had told Jennifer. The man had taken one look at Clay’s wife and wanted to get in her pants. The irony was Russ could’ve fucked her for a compliment; the whole decorator ruse was completely unnecessary. “The developer hired Jen.”
He stopped and studied Emily’s face. “Did you get the rest of the sordid details from Mandy and the other women?”
“Uh . . . no details. Just innuendos.” She placed her hand on his arm. “What happened?”
“She had an affair with the developer and convinced herself that she’d fallen in love with him. Frankly, I was too caught up to care. My father had just died, I had to pick up the responsibilities of the ranch, and I had two boys treating me like a stranger. All my energy went into forging a relationship with them.
“To make a long story short,” he went on, “the day she died she threatened to leave me. By that time, I knew Sierra Heights was underwater and that the developer, Russ Johnson, had big financial problems on his hands. I broke the news to her and told her that I’d give her a lot of money in exchange for full custody of Justin and Cody. I don’t think she had any intention of running off with Russ, but she couldn’t stand the idea that I would let her go without a fight. Jen loved drama more than life itself.”
She’d proven that, hadn’t she? “To taunt me, she named an astronomical amount and took off in a huff of theatrics.”
“Is that when she got into the accident?” Emily continued to hold on to his arm, her small warm hand meant to be reassuring.
“No,” he said. “She met with Russ. They went to Reno and got a room. The employees at the Peppermill said they’d been at the bar most of the night drinking, fighting, and making a scene. They asked them to take it out of the casino and back to their suite. Instead, they got in Jen’s Lexus and that asshole let her drive when she was too hammered to walk. The CHP found her SUV wrapped around a tree. They think the impact killed her instantly.”
“Oh God.” Emily closed her eyes. “Was he hurt?”
“Nope. Walked away without even so much as a bruise.”
“I am horribly sorry for all of it, Clay.”
Clay squeezed her hand. “He’s back.”
“Who?” she asked, confused.
“Russ Johnson. I think the reason must have something to do with Sierra Heights. Since the accident, the development has been shuttered. Russ pulled a lot of strings to get that place built. The residents hated it from the get-go—thought it would turn Nugget into an overbuilt resort town. They hate it even more now that it’s empty and attracting squatters.”
“I’ve never seen it.” Emily took both their plates to the sink.
“Maddy calls it ‘Jackson Hole on steroids,’ ” he said. “I never told the boys about Jen, but Justin has started to piece it together thanks to gossip. I’m afraid with Russ being back the whole story will blow up.”
Emily came back to the table. “You have to tell them. It should come from you, not from others. They’re smart boys, Clay. Just be honest. Tell them that your marital problems had nothing to do with them. That in the heat of arguing, you and Jennifer said awful things to one another, but none if it was meant to hurt Justin and Cody.”
Clay got up and leaned against the counter. “Rhys thinks I should take them on vacation. Get them out of town.”
“Not a bad idea.” Emily stopped to consider it. He liked how she weighed and measured her reactions. Very thoughtful. “But not if it’s just to run away, because this will be here when you get back. Where would you take them?”
Clay responded, “New York, maybe.”
“Really? That’s the last place I would’ve expected.” She eyed his jeans and boots.
“What, you think I’m a country bumpkin?” he teased. “Honey, I’ve been all over the world. It would be good for the boys to tour a big city, eat at a few fancy restaurants, see a Broadway show. Jen used to take them to DC to visit her folks, but they’ve never been to the Big Apple.”
“Sounds like a great time. But, Clay, tell them.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Unfortunately, talking isn’t exactly my strong point. I’m the strong, silent type. Too much time alone on the range, and in a cockpit.”
“You seem pretty communicative to me,” she said.
“That’s because you make it easy.” Clay smiled, liking the way she wore the compliment.
She stalled for a second, then asked, “Have you discussed this with Lauren?”
“Nah. Beautiful women like Lauren don’t want to hear about this kind of stuff. We’re just getting to know each other. I’m trying to impress her, not scare her off.”
“Right,” she said. “Of course.”
He headed for the door and grabbed his hat off the peg. “I better get to getting. The boys will be coming home hungry.”
“Let me wrap one of the quiches up for you to bring home.” She wrapped the quiche in foil, walked to the entryway, and handed Clay the pie plate.
“Thank you.” He moved in to give her a peck on the lips, mostly because he hankered to see how she tasted. But Emily turned her head so fast it’s lucky she didn’t give herself whiplash.
She sure was a prickly little thing.
Chapter 11
“You sure you don’t want a shave?” the bossy barber asked Griffin.
Hell no, he didn’t want a shave. And he didn’t want the suggested crew cut either. From the minute he’d walked in, the barber had taken one look at Griff and must’ve decided that he needed the works.
“Just a trim, if you don’t mind. You Owen?” That was the name on the shop, so Griff took a stab at the obvious.
“Yup.” Owen got out the shears and began clipping as four sets of eyes stared.
Strangest barbershop Griff had ever been in. A group of old men lounged in Owen’s waiting room, none of them wanting services as far as Griffin could tell. They just loitered, sucking up the free air-conditioning and slurping down coffee. Then again, in LA affectations were common in most hair salons. At least here no one had offered him Perrier.
“So, you’re that fellow buying the Gas and Go?” Owen asked, and those four sets of eyes nearly bugged out of their heads.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where you getting that kind of cash? Because in this town we don’t tolerate drug money.”
Griff gulped. “Okay. Good to know.”
“Donna Thurston, over at the Bun Boy, thinks you might be one of those LA stuntmen. Which is fine. But if you’re into anything nefarious”—Owen motioned to the four old farts like they were hit men—“we’ve got us a real problem.”
“Actually, I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.” Griffin rolled his eyes.
“You think we haven’t heard that one before?” Owen snorted.
“How do you know I’m not independently wealthy?” After it left his mouth, Griffin wished he could take it back.
Morris had warned him about shooting off his mouth. “People who flaunt their money become marks,” Morris had cautioned over and over again. But the grumpy old men here were pissing him off.
“Yeah, and I’m George Clooney,” Owen said.
“Look, not that it’s any of your damn business, but I came into a small inheritance.” Okay, a bit of a stretch. But not to someone like Warren Buffett. He really didn’t owe these yahoos any explanation whatsoever. But as a new businessman and a soon-to-be resident, he wanted to get off on the right foot. “And a gas station’s a good investment.”
“I’ll tell you how to make money with that place,” one of Owen’s hit men, a geriatric in a short-sleeved polyester Western shirt, said.
“Listen up good,” Owen chimed in. “That right there is Mayor Dink Caruthers.”
Well, hail to the chief. Griff couldn’t wait to hear what a dude named Dink had to say. “How?”
“Bait!” The rest of the crew nodded their heads in approval.
Griffin put his hands out and shrugged. “Fish bait?”
“Yup. You get yourself a cooler and sell it year round.”
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” NOT. “I swas thinking of a car wash. The closest one is in Quincy. What do you think?”
“Waste of water.” This from the tubby guy in the Stetson.
“Actually, I’ve been doing some research and they have all these energy-efficient systems.” Griffin planned to put the car wash next to the garage. One of those drive-through deals, where if you buy a tank of gas you get a discount. According to all the books he’d been reading, the money was in full service. Smog checks, oil changes, tire rotations.
“Might work,” Owen said with the enthusiasm of a dead fish. “You gonna live over the gas station, selling bait, like Denny?”
“Nah. I’m turning it into offices for the custom bike business.” The more he thought about it, the more sense it made to take one of those big houses in Sierra Heights. If he bought the place, it would take time to sell all the homes in the planned community. He needed to be on the premises to keep watch over the grounds. Plus, once people started moving in, it would be nice living among families, seeing the kids play in their yards, maybe hold potlucks in the community center.
“What exact kind of bikes will you be building?” Mayor Dink wanted to know. “We’re not a gang-friendly town here in Nugget.” As far as Griff could tell, these dudes weren’t friendly, period.
“Expensive bikes. Very, very expensive bikes,” Griffin said.
Owen put down his shears and scratched his chin. “You planning on taking up permanent residence in the Lumber Baron? Because with all the fancy plans you have, you’ll piss away that inheritance in no time.”
Fat chance of that, pops. Not unless Daddy Warbucks decided to pull the plug on the trust fund, which so far he hadn’t. But Griff appreciated the sentiment just the same. “I’m looking for something.”