He also knew that on Sundays, while many townspeople attended church and enjoyed potluck lunches, many of the ranch hands spend their day off at the Roundup.
Johnny had no idea whether any of the men would talk to him or not, but he recognized it was a case of nothing ventured, nothing gained. Maybe, just maybe he’d get lucky and one of them would remember something that would point a finger of accusation toward somebody other than Johnny.
Besides, the anonymous call that had come into the sheriffs office the night of Sydney’s murder telling the sheriff something was amiss at the old abandoned shed had come from the pay phone on the building outside of the Roundup. There was only one person who could have made that call...the killer.
It was Johnny’s misfortune and the ill-timing of fate that when the sheriff arrived, Johnny was standing over Sydney’s dead body. Even after all this time, there were still nights when Johnny suffered nightmares of Sydney’s death, nights when her dead eyes haunted him and cried out for justice.
With justice in mind. Johnny arrived at the Roundup just after noon. The place was jumping with activity. The jukebox blared, glasses clinked and the sound of masculine voices filled the air.
Johnny eased onto an empty stool at the bar and ordered a burger, fries and a beer. The beer arrived first, cold and frothy. He took a sip of the brew as he spun around on the stool so he could observe the other patrons.
Two of the names that had been on the list Johnny had recognized. Scott Beamon and Clint Mayfield. Johnny had a vague picture of both men in his mind, although he was aware that his mental picture was ten years out-of-date. Still, he thought he would be able to identify either man if he saw him
Surreptitiously he eyed each cowboy, careful to keep his eye contact minimal. In a place like this, eye contact could be perceived as a challenge and Johnny knew how quickly tempers could explode when macho posturing was mixed with booze.
When his hamburger and fries arrived; he turned back around and ate. The food was surprisingly good The burger was oversized and charbroiled to perfection. The fries were greasy, but thick and golden brown with seasoned salt.
For a few minutes Johnny focused his entire attention on the pleasure of the food. For ten years he’d eaten the adequate, but relatively tasteless prison fare. Since his freedom, he’d taken to enjoying his meals as he never remembered doing in the distant past.
As he ate, the door opened and closed, admitting more cowhands as others left. Johnny had just finished his burger when the door opened and Clint Mayfield walked in.
Although the face of Johnny’s memory was less wrinkled, the hair two shades darker than the gray that streaked through it, Johnny was certain of the man’s identity. He was even more sure when Clint’s gaze fell on him, and Johnny saw Clint’s eyes darken with enmity.
Clint walked to the opposite end of the bar from where Johnny sat. He sat on one of the stools and ordered a dnnk, his gaze refusing to meet Johnny’s.
Johnny finished his meal, then slid off his stool and walked around the bar to where Clint sat. “Buy you a drink?” he offered the older man.
“Nope. I can buy my own,” Clint replied, still not looking at Johnny.
“Could I talk to you for just a few minutes?”
Clint finally looked at him, his dark eyes filled with dislike. “Now why in the hell would I want to talk to you?”
“I’m hoping you’re a man with a code of ethics, that truth means something to you.”
“Depends on whose truth we’re talking about...yours or the Emerys’?”
“It should be one and the same,” Johnny replied.
Clint didn’t respond for a long moment. He took a deep drink of his whiskey, then rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you right now, the Emerys pay better than any other ranches in the state. I’m not going to say or do anything that jeopardizes my position with them.”
“Did you know you were listed as one of the suspects in Sydney’s murder case?”
Clint nodded. “I figured as much. The sheriff questioned most of the hands on the ranch and there was a bunch of us without alibis.” Clint’s eyes narrowed. “However, the sheriff seemed pretty certain they already had the killer in custody... you.”
“Did you know Sydney?” Johnny asked, pushing forward despite Clint’s obvious reluctance.
“Not personally Her and her little sister didn’t leave the house much.” Clint frowned down into his drink. “I’d see Sydney sometimes, standing at her bedroom window staring outside. It wasn’t natural...the way those girls were kept inside like prisoners.” Clint clamped his mouth tightly closed, as if sorry he’d said as much as he had.
“Was Sydney seeing anyone that you know of? Dating one of the ranch hands? Did you hear any talk about her and anyone else?”
“No way,” Clint replied. “Bradley would have killed any of the hands that looked twice at her.” Clint downed the last of his drink and stood. “And that’s all I got to say to you.”
Johnny didn’t try to stop Clint as he walked away from the bar. He knew he’d gotten as much as he could from the man. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t much of anything.
Surely somebody had to have seen something that night, heard something. He went back to his stool and sat down. He ordered another beer and as he sipped it, he thought back to all the nights he’d spent time with Sydney, all the conversations they’d had, seeking a clue as to why anyone would want to kill her.
He and Sydney had often sat in that old shed and talked. At the time their conversations hadn’t seemed all that momentous, they’d just been passing time... sharing loneliness. Now it seemed imminently important that he remember every word of those conversations.
Sydney had talked about her love for her little sister, Gillian. She’d spoken of her intense desire to eventually get away from Mustang. She’d spoken little of her mother and her stepbrother, but Johnny had guessed that she resented them for their strictness with her.
He frowned into the last of his beer, feeling as if he was forgetting something, overlooking something important. But what? What had Sydney said or not said, done or not done that might lead him to her murderer?
He motioned the bartender over with a wave of his hand.
“Another beer?” the bartender asked.
“No How about a little information?”
The bartender shrugged. “Information about what?”
“How long you been working here?” Johnny asked.
“Two years. Why?” The short man eyed Johnny with a hint of belligerence. “You got a problem with me?”
“No. I’d like to talk to somebody who was working here ten years ago,” Johnny explained.
“Ten years ago?” The bartender frowned and swiped a wet towel across the countertop. “I wouldn’t know who worked here that long ago. You might ask Gus Winstead over there... think he’s been coming in here since the beginning of time.”
Johnny looked at the man the bartender indicated Gus sat alone at a table in the corner, his wispy gray hair barely covering the shine of his scalp. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze focused intently on the whiskey bottle just in front of him.
“From what I hear, he was once a decent ranch hand...that was before the accident that crippled his right leg. Since then, he’s mostly drunk all the time.”
“Thanks,” Johnny said to the bartender. He paid his tab, then walked toward Gus, fairly certain there was no way the old man would be able to help him.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked the old man.
Rheumy blue eyes peered up at him, then gestured grandly to the seat across from him. “Last I heard, it was a free country.”
Johnny nodded and sat across from him. “Heard you’re a regular around here.”
Gus snorted. “I get any more regular they’ll be changing the name of this place to my name.”
“Been coming here long?”
“Long enough.” Gus eyed Johnny suspiciously. “You taking a
survey?”
“Just looking for somebody who might have been around ten years ago,” Johnny replied, realizing the old man was sharper than he’d initially suspected.
“What’s so special about ten years ago?” Gus asked.
“A girl died...she was murdered.”
Gus took a long drink directly from the bottle of booze. He belched, then nodded. “The Emery girl.”
“You remember the night she died? Were you here that night?” Johnny leaned forward, mentally willing the old man’s memory to work.
“I was here. Sitting right here at the table when I heard the news. And at the time I thought it was a damned shame that the wrong Emery got murdered.”
Johnny sat back, stunned by the bitterness that radiated in Gus’s voice. “Who would have been the right Emery?” he asked softly.
“That black-hearted, whip-snapping Bradley Emery... the devil take his soul.” Gus threw back another long drink of the whiskey then stared at some indefinable spot above Johnny’s head. “I worked for the Emerys for seven years. I was a damn good hand to have around. The little Emery girl...” he frowned.
“Gillian,” Johnny supplied the name.
Gus nodded. “Gillian She was about four when I saw her last. She had a broken arm and was wearing a cast. She was standing on the porch and looked so sad...I gave her a piece of gum. I didn’t think nothing about it and I went back to working a new horse in the corral ” His gaze lowered and met Johnny’s, and in the depths of his bloodshot blue eyes, Johnny saw hatred.
“Wasn’t but a few minutes later that Bradley came looking for me. He wasn’t nothing but a snot-nosed kid at that time, but he carried that whip everywhere he went. He hollered at me, told me if his stepsister needs gum, he’ll get it for her, that Emerys don’t mix with cowhands and I was to keep my distance. Then that boy cracked that whip. Scared the bejesus out of the horse I was on. He reared up and I fell off. The horse came crashing down atop of me...crushed my leg like a toothpick in a lawn mower.”
Gus drew a deep breath and raked a hand over his grizzly whiskered chin. “Damn boy ruined my life in the snap of a whip. He left me laying there on the ground, screaming for help. The other hands came running to help me, but Brad didn’t even look back.”
Johnny drew a deep breath of his own, stunned by the story of brutality he’d just heard. He’d always known Brad was a man with a short fuse, but he hadn’t realized just how merciless Brad could be.
“So you were here when you heard about Sydney’s murder?” Johnny asked after a moment of silence.
Gus looked at him with confusion. “Yes. Yes, I’m pretty sure I was here...either that night or the next one. I don’t rightly remember.”
Suddenly Gus’s pale blue eyes clouded over. “I hope her death broke his heart. I hope his heart bled tears of sorrow. He had it coming. Damned boy...damned Emerys... they all had it coming.” He grabbed the bottle and held it close to his chest, and Johnny knew he’d lost him to whatever inner demons plagued his soul.
Johnny left the Roundup, questions still boiling in his head. Eventually, he would catch up to the other men listed as potential suspects, but for now he had enough food for thought
It was odd that Gus Winstead hadn’t been on the list of suspects. He obviously nursed a deep, abiding grudge against the Emerys. Was it a grudge strong enough to murder an innocent young woman? He doubted it; the old man seemed to care for Sydney and Gillian
It was difficult to imagine the drunken old man being capable of physically harming someone anyway. However, ten years ago he wasn’t so old. A man didn’t need two strong legs to strangle a woman to death...all he needed was two powerful hands, and Gus Winstead had those.
As he drove toward his ranch, he tried to tamp down the feeling of hopelessness that pervaded him. Maybe Marissa had been right. How did he expect to solve a murder ten years after the fact when the authorities hadn’t solved it at the time it had taken place? Maybe he was just spinning his wheels, wasting time that could be better spent in the present rather than digging into the distant past.
A mental picture of his son blossomed in his head. For Benjamin, he wanted to clear his name. Forever, there would be a seed of doubt, a question of Johnny’s ultimate innocence unless Johnny found the true perpetrator of the crime. He couldn’t stop digging. He had to make himself remember those nights when he and Sydney had spent so many hours talking. It was important that he search his memory for any clues as to why she was killed.
Eventually he would find the four other men on the list of suspects and he would talk to each one. If one of them was the real killer, then if nothing else, by questioning them he might force the killer to show his hand.
In the meantime all he could do was try to remember the past. As he climbed into his truck, he smiled thoughtfully. He had to try to remember his past with Sydney, and desperately wished he could forget his past with Marissa. He didn’t seem to be accomplishing either very well.
“Frank Lambino.”
Marissa gripped the phone receiver more tightly against her ear. “Pardon me?”
“Frank Lambino. He’s a good friend of Derek’s, and he’s your date for the night,” Lucy explained. “Derek says he’s a good-looking Italian who is looking for Ms. Right.”
Nerves fluttered in Marissa’s stomach. The thought of a real date was frightening...the idea of a blind date was terrifying. “Maybe you should call Derek and—”
“Don’t even say it,” Lucy jumped in before Marissa could finish the sentence. “I’m not about to cancel for you. You asked me to find you a date, and I did. You told me there’s no way you and Johnny have anything going on, Benjamin isn’t a baby anymore and it’s high time you enjoyed an adult evening in the company of a handsome male.”
“Okay, you’re right.” Marissa drew a deep breath, hoping to still her fluttering tummy.
“Of course I’m right. We’ll be there to pick you up around six-thirty, okay?”
“Okay,” Marissa agreed, feeling as if she’d just conceded to oral surgery.
“And, Marissa..try to work up some enthusiasm between now and then.” With those words Lucy hung up.
Enthusiasm. It was difficult to fit any in around the dread that coursed through Marissa’s mind. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, as she took a long, liberating bubble bath, that the dread began to ebb and a hint of anticipation appeared.
She lay back in soothingly warm water, the scent of exotic flowers drifting upward from the bubbles that surrounded her. Lucy was right. It was high time she indulged herself in an evening where her male companion didn’t call her “mom.”
She was almost twenty-nine years old, and there were nights she ached to be held in strong arms, days when she wanted a man who would share her laughter, dry her tears.
It was time she admitted she was a healthy, normal woman who was lonely, a woman who had put her own personal needs on hold for too long.
Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure up a picture of what Frank Lambino might look like. Lucy had said he was a handsome Italian. He’d probably have dark, almost black hair and skin a deep, rich hue And his eyes would be the intense blue of a gas flame. She frowned, realizing that her mental picture was not of a man she might meet, but rather one of a man she knew intimately. Johnny.
Dammit, why couldn’t she get him out of her head? Why did it seem that he invaded all parts of her? He found his way into her dreams, crept into her fantasies at unguarded moments, and stole into her thoughts no matter how she tried to keep him out.
It was time to cast him away. She knew there was no way he would ever really belong to her. It was time for her to put the memories of her first love aside, to make room for a lasting love in her heart.
Tonight was a perfect time to begin looking for what so many other women her age had found...lasting love. With this thought in mind, she finished her bath and dressed with extra care.
By five forty-five, she was ready. She stood in front of her dresse
r mirror and surveyed her reflection critically. The short-sleeved red dress she’d chosen to wear had never been worn before It had been an impulse buy, far too expensive to wear to work at the shop, but far too pretty to pass up.
The silk material felt luscious against her skin The scoop neck displayed a hint of swelling breast, the cinched waist complemented her slenderness and the swirling full skirt felt deliciously sinful against her hoseclad legs. She wore a tad more makeup than usual and her hair had been blown and curled to fall to her shoulders in soft curls.
“This is as good as it gets,” she murmured as she picked up the small handbag that matched the dress and left her bedroom.
“Wow, Mom, you look pretty,” Benjamin said as she walked into the living room.
“Thank you, Benjy.” She sat down on the sofa next to him. “You’re sure it’s okay with you...this dating stuff?” It seemed odd to be talking about dating with her nine-year-old son, but she wanted him to be all right with the idea.
He gave her a look of studied patience. “Mom, I’m not a little kid anymore. I know about people dating. Sammy Walters’s mom goes out on dates all the time. Sammy says it isn’t so bad ’cause the guys she dates always try to get on his good side by buying him stuff and taking him places.”
Marissa laughed and shook her head. “Sounds to me like Sammy is a little operator.”
“No, Mom, he’s just a fourth-grader,” Benjamin replied.
Again Marissa laughed and gave her son a hug. At that moment the doorbell rang. Marissa opened the door to admit Johnny.
His gaze moved slowly down the length of her, pausing to linger at the scoop neck before moving languidly down the length of her legs. Marissa felt the heat of his gaze as tangible as an actual touch and the heat of a blush leapt to her cheeks.
“Hi, Dad,” Benjamin jumped off the sofa and greeted Johnny with a wide grin. “Doesn’t Mom look pretty?”
“Indeed, she does,” he said, his gaze dark and shuttered.
“Well, I’m sure you guys have a fun night planned. Pizza, right?” Marissa said, eager to hurry them along before her date arrived.
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