The Parker charm. Jodie knew it well. If you couldn’t win a battle by direct confrontation, win it by persuasion. But something made her pause. That momentary sense of her great-aunt’s frailty.
Jodie glanced away for a second, then looked back. “I’ll try, Aunt Mae,” she promised quietly, and when her aunt reached out to hug her, she let her love for this steel-hard woman break through in response.
THE HOUSE was quiet as Jodie made her way back to the front door. Marie must have taken off—she was probably hiding out at the ranch hands’ cookhouse, visiting Axel. And the family, knowing of the command appearance, had stayed clear, as well.
That didn’t mean they weren’t interested, though. On her way past Rafe and Shannon’s house, Jodie was waylaid by Shannon and Harriet, who, “coincidentally”, were just coming out with their young children.
Both five-year-old Anna, Harriet and LeRoy’s younger daughter, and Ward, Shannon and Rafe’s fourand-a-half year-old son, looked inquisitively at Jodie before running off to play under the trees in the center courtyard, a golden-haired puppy gamboling at their heels. Nathan, Shannon and Rafe’s three-year-old, showed no interest in Jodie at all as he hurried to catch up with the others.
“They don’t remember me,” she murmured, looking wistfully after them.
“A year is a long time in a child’s life,” Shannon said.
“Oh, you’ll be back in their good graces before you know it,” Harriet said. “All you have to do is pay attention to Shep, Jr. Someone wrote to tell you about him, right? The kids got together and named him in honor of old Shep. Shannon told them he’d already been given a name at the kennel, but they said it wasn’t the right one. What was it, Shannon? Duke or Domino or something like that?”
“Duke,” Shannon said, smiling.
“Rafe sided with them, and since the puppy was his present from Shannon, that settled it.”
“I thought Rafe didn’t want another dog after...”
“He said he didn’t,” Shannon replied, “but he never got over losing Shep. Even after three years I’d catch him looking around as if he expected Shep to be there. They’d been part of each other’s lives for so many years. One day I just did it. His face lit up when he saw the puppy, then the kids wanted to name him Shep, Jr....It was really Gwen and Wes’s doing.” She named Harriet’s older children. “Ward! Ward, stop it!” she called when she saw her older son thump his brother with the puppy’s rope chew toy.
“If those two don’t look like Parkers,” Jodie said softly.
Shannon laughed. “They seem to have missed my genes altogether. ”Ward!“ she again warned her older son. “I’ll be back in a second,” she said in exasperation.
Jodie watched as Shannon went to administer justice, her wheat-colored hair swinging against her shoulders. It was hard to believe that seven years had passed since Shannon had arrived at the ranch. At the time she’d been a pale stranger in need of recuperation from a plane crash she’d barely survived—one in which everyone else on board had been killed, including her father and her fiancé. Now, the limp that once disabled her had all but disappeared. And she’d become a Parker—in every way that counted.
Harriet must have been thinking along the same lines, because she said quietly, “It’s pretty amazing when you think about it, isn’t it? Shannon coming here, she and Rafe falling in love, having kids. Terrible as it was, if it hadn’t been for that plane crash, none of this would have happened. She’d probably have married that other man, Rafe would’ve had to keep putting up with Mae shoving women his way, and you and I would have been short a good friend.”
Jodie turned to look at Harriet. In her mind Harriet’s influence at the ranch had been pretty special, too. Jodie’d been ten when Harriet and LeRoy married, and from that point on her new cousin had always been there for her—across the courtyard, ready to help out in tough situations or willing merely to listen.
Harriet, sensing her scrutiny, turned wide-spaced gray eyes on Jodie. “What is it?” she asked, laughing. “Are you counting my silver hairs? If you find more than six, let me know and I’ll dye those suckers brown again so fast...You’re not the only one who can play with hair color, you know.”
Shannon rejoined them. “Hopefully that’s taken care of it.” She gave the children one last glance, before turning curious blue eyes on Jodie and Harriet. “What are you two talking about?”
“Hair dye!” Harriet said. “What do you think? How would I look as a platinum blond? I could buy one of those skintight dresses, then walk around like my knees are glued together.” She struck a Marilyn Monroe pose, which went amazingly well with her lush figure, before bursting into giggles.
“LeRoy would have a heart attack,” Shannon teased.
“Not to mention Aunt Mae.” Jodie grinned.
“Which brings us back to what Shannon and I want to know,” Harriet said. “How did it go? You don’t look particularly the worse for wear. No singed edges.”
“None that show at any rate,” Shannon agreed.
Jodie smiled wryly. “Well, she wasn’t pleased, but beyond that...”
“Oh, come on,” Harriet said. “There has to be more.”
“She wants me to grow up.”
The stark statement, tinged with hurt, caused a silence, then Shannon asked, “Isn’t that what you’ve already done?”
“It seems I haven’t done it well enough. Not in her view.”
“She’s proud of you, Jodie,” Harriet said quickly. “Proud that you graduated with honors from the university, proud that you—”
“She threw Rio in my face again,” Jodie interrupted tightly.
The other two women shared a glance. “But Rio was such a long time ago,” Shannon said.
“That’s what I told her.”
“So what does she want you to do?” Harriet demanded.
“Basically?” Jodie said. “The opposite of what I’ve been doing up till now. No more running away from...things.”
Shannon shook her head. “Wouldn’t you think that at her age she’d let up a bit?”
Harriet grumbled, “She probably only sees it as having less time to get what she wants.”
“She truly does care about you, Jodie,” Shannon assured her. “She cares about all of us, but you most of all. It makes a difference that she practically raised you. Maybe that’s why she expects so much.”
A brightly colored ball bounced by, followed immediately by the puppy and three laughing children.
“We were just on our way to Harriet’s house for lunch,” Shannon said. “Would you like to come along?”
“The more the merrier!” Harriet said.
Jodie smiled her regrets. “No, I’m going to lie down for a while. My body still thinks it’s somewhere else. And I sure don’t want to be guilty of falling asleep during dinner tonight. Aunt Mae would never forgive me.”
“She’d probably make you start taking afternoon naps.” Harriet laughed.
After a few minutes spent playing with the puppy and talking to the children, Jodie continued to her father’s house. It, too, was quiet. He must still have been in town on his errand or off somewhere painting. For most of her life her father had distanced himself from her and from others. As she’d grown older, she’d come to understand that he used this distance as a defense. If he lost himself in his painting, he could get away from everything that bothered him, both in the present and from the past. Over the years his avocation was supposed to be a secret from Mae, but she’d known, as she always did.
Gib was remarkably talented. His scenes of working life on a ranch looked so genuine—the horses, the cowboys, the cattle—it seemed they might come to life and step off the canvas at any second. In the beginning he’d shown them to no one, not even her. Then, slowly, over the past few years, as he’d gained a little confidence, he’d begun to work out in the open in his spare time.
. Where would he be now if he’d been encouraged from the onset, instead of discouraged? If Mae h
adn’t thought it a waste of time for a grown man to smear dabs of color on a canvas?
Jodie marched straight to the bathroom and, stripping off her clothes, stepped into the shower.
She did not want her darkened hair to make anyone think she was trying to look like a Parker. When Mae said that, it had stung!
Was that what Tate Connelly thought, too? Was that why he’d found the entire affair so amusing last night?
Jodie wet her head under the spray of water, poured a huge dollop of shampoo into her hand, worked it into a massive lather, then rinsed. She repeated the process until all traces of black had been washed down the drain and her hair once again gleamed with coppery-red highlights.
CHAPTER THREE
“TELL HER SHE’S GOT to stop hasslin’ me, Tate! First thing I wake up, last thing at night, all the while I’m tryin’ to do anythin’! She even calls me at work—at work!—to complain. I’m gonna get fired. She’s gotta stop it. Tell her she’s gotta stop it! You’ll do that for me, won’tcha? Tell her she’s gotta stop or...or you’ll take her in, put her in jail. Yeah, that’s it. She wouldn’t like that, not a bit. ‘Cause then she couldn’t get at me! You’ll tell her, won’t ya? Won’tcha?”
Tate listened patiently as Jimmy Evers gave his side of the story. Before that, he’d listened patiently to Jimmy’s wife, Eve, as she’d told hers. He and Jimmy stood outside the Everses’ ramshackle house, the front screen door hanging loose on its hinges, trash scattered about the yard and several long-dead car hulks littering the driveway. Jimmy, dressed in dingy jeans and a torn undershirt, reeked of sour mash.
“She says you hit her, Jimmy,” Tate said evenly.
“I never did!” Jimmy denied. “I pushed her, but she was comin’ at me with a pot. One of those big heavy ones. If I hadn’t pushed her, I’d be on my way to the hospital right now...this very minute...prob’ly dead! Then she couldn’t hassle me anymore, could she? Maybe I shoulda let her do it. Just let her haul off and—”
Tate cut into the torrent of words. “She says you hit her before she tried to hit you.”
“That’s not true!” Jimmy blustered.
“Then why’s she got that big bruise on her forehead?”
“She got that when she fell!”
“Fell after you hit her?”
Jimmy shook his head vehemently. “No! No! I pushed her. After she came at me, I pushed her an’...an’ then she fell.”
Tate took hold of Jimmy’s arm while reaching for the handcuffs attached to the back of his service belt. “I’m gonna have to take you in, Jimmy. You can tell it to the judge.”
Jimmy tried to back away. “Uh-uh! I don’t wanna tell nothin’ to no judge.”
Tate swung the man around so he could lock his wrists firmly behind him. “This has all happened before, Jimmy. No use you causin’ trouble now.”
As Jimmy continued to protest, Eve appeared inside the screen door. She was a tiny woman, bone thin, old before her time. “What’s goin’ on?” she demanded.
“I’m takin’ Jimmy to jail, Eve,” Tate said.
“Why’d you tell him I hit you, Evie?” Jimmy whined, twisting his head so he could see his wife.
“’Cause you did. But I don’t want you to take him to jail!” she told Tate as she pushed outside.
“I’m afraid it’s out of your hands now.”
“Evie!” Jimmy wailed.
“I won’t press charges!” Evie declared angrily.
“I still have to take him in.”
“But he didn’t hit me! I...I lied!”
Tate shook his head as he took Jimmy to his patrol car. “All I can go by is what you told me earlier and what I see with my own eyes.”
“Evie!” Jimmy wailed louder.
Tate was bending to put the reluctant man into the backseat when Evie, undoubtedly suffering from a drink too many herself, attacked him.
“Let him go! Let him go!” she screeched. “You don’t have any right! I’ll file a complaint, all right, but it won’t be against him. It’ll be against you!”
For a small woman she packed a good wallop. Still, Tate ignored the blows raining down on his back until he had Jimmy secured. Then he turned to deal with the distraught wife. After a short scuffle he overpowered her.
Tears streamed down Evie Evers’s cheeks as she stood with her arms pinned against her sides.
“Eve...Evie, listen to me!” Tate said urgently. “He’s hurt you today. He’s hurt you in the past. Just last week one of your neighbors called to complain that Jimmy was waving a gun at him and yellin’ that he couldn’t sit on his own porch. Your man makes a whole world of trouble for himself when he drinks. You know that!”
“But I love him,” Evie moaned, her faded blue eyes pleading for understanding.
Tate suppressed a weary sigh. How many times had he heard that before? Not only here, but during the years he’d worked street patrol in Dallas. “Did you talk to those people I told you about?” he asked.
Her body twitched and she turned her face away. “No.”
“Do you still have their card?”
“I have it,” she admitted. But she wouldn’t look at him, probably because she had no intention of using it.
“Give ’em a call, Evie. That’s what they’re there for, for people like you and Jimmy. They can help.”
By this time Jimmy had started to cry. They could hear his blubbering through the closed window. He wasn’t crying for the misery he’d caused his wife, though. He was crying for himself, because once again he was in trouble.
As Tate settled behind the wheel, he watched Eve Evers return to her house. Other eyes were watching, as well, from behind the cracks in drawn curtains. Something else for the neighbors to talk about.
THE BRIGGS COUNTY Sheriffs Office was located in Del Norte, the county’s largest town, population a fairly even 1,200 souls. There were only two other towns within the county limits and both were small enough to miss if you blinked. The remainder of the county’s 6,000 square miles was mostly isolated ranchland, policed by Tate and his four deputies. Because resources were spread so thin, an informal understanding had been worked out between the Del Norte police force—a chief and two officers—and the sheriffs office, where they would each make themselves available to assist the other when called upon. The jail, though, belonged solely to the county, and as sheriff, Tate was charged with its administration, a job that caused him innumerable headaches. Some problem or other always seemed to crop up, just as his predecessor, Jack Denton, had warned.
Jack had accomplished quite a bit during his long tenure as sheriff. He’d ushered Briggs County into modern times, pressing for and then overseeing the building of the new jail facility and the purchase of new patrol cars. He’d also demanded that the county provide uniforms for himself and his men. While the counties surrounding them were just now starting to think about changing from the good-ol’-boy, everybody-knows-who-we-are jeans and white shirts, the members of the Briggs County Sheriff’s Department already wore professional-looking uniforms.
“Ain’t nobody gonna mistake one of my men for somethin’ they aren’t!” Jack had decreed. And he was right. Today’s population was very mobile. Lawmen weren’t known by everyone in the county anymore. When they gave a command or drew a gun, it was to everyone’s advantage to know that they were on official business, with all the appropriate authority.
Tate parked the patrol car next to the low stone building and took Jimmy Evers through to the jail facility in back.
“Let him dry out,” Tate instructed one of the jailers, “then he can call whoever he wants. He’s not goin’ anywhere for a while.”
He started to turn away, but was stopped by a hasty, “Sheriff? Doug Rawlings has been complaining he needs some pain pills for his back. Says if you don’t do something about it soon, he’s gonna file a lawsuit.”
“Another one?” Tate muttered dryly. “Tell him I’ll see if I can get the doc to stop by. But he’s goin’ to have to wait his tur
n. Be sure to tell him that, too.”
Tate made his way along the connecting hallway to his department. In contrast to the new jail, the sheriffs’s domain hadn’t been spruced up since shortly after the Second World War. The walls were painted an institutional green, and the lighting was an inadequate fluorescent. A long wooden bench that had been rescued from a derelict bus station was pushed against one wall, and across from it sat a faded couch of unknown age. This served as the holding area for people awaiting questioning or for those from the community who wanted to speak to someone in the office. A scarred wooden table stood in the opposite corner, on which was perched an ancient, though still functional, coffee-maker, a jar of creamer, a box of sugar cubes, a stack of cups and a few assorted plastic spoons. Above it was a map of the county and a bulletin board covered with notices and Wanted posters. The place had looked the same for as long as Tate could remember, and if anyone ever had the bright idea to change it, he’d put up one heck of a fight. He liked it the way it was.
“Tate?” Emma Connelly, still slim and in her early fifties with short silvery hair and the same brown eyes as her son, was a dispatcher for the sheriff’s office and had been since before Tate was born. “A sheriff from up in Colorado’s been trying to get hold of you for the past couple of hours. He left his number, wants you to call. I put it on your desk.” His mother also did double duty as clerical help, assisting Rose Martinez, who’d been with the sheriffs office for almost as long as Emma had.
“Thanks,” Tate said.
Her gaze ran slowly over him. “You want to come by for dinner tonight? You look like you could use a good meal. I’ll cook you a steak.”
He smiled. “I might just take you up on that.”
Tate proceeded to his private office, a small room dominated by a huge walnut desk and lined with file cabinets. After hanging his service belt and hat on the prongs of the antique deer antlers a previous sheriff had contributed to the wall decor, he sat down and began a cursory look at the material awaiting his attention. But he couldn’t concentrate on the paperwork and, instead, ended up assuming his favorite thinking position: his body stretched back in the chair, arms folded behind his head, boots crossed comfortably at the ankles and resting on the desk blotter.
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