“And you recognized Byron, even with the ski mask covering his entire head?”
“I recognized Velda’s car,” Martine stressed. “I was too scared to identify anybody, notice eye color or height or anything like that. I just wanted to give the robber whatever he wanted so he’d get out of here—without shooting me.”
Steven nodded. “Any customers in the store right before your break?” Steven asked moderately.
But Martine shook her head. “As I said, it was quiet. Everybody in town was over at the dance.” She paused, gave a husky, rueful chuckle. “Everybody except George and me, anyhow.”
George, Steven assumed, was the boyfriend, the one she’d been on the outs with on the night in question. He didn’t pursue the subject. “No strangers came in? Say, early in your shift?”
Another shake of the head. “Last strangers I recall seeing were an older couple traveling in an RV, and that was at least a couple of days before—before it happened.”
Steven didn’t respond directly. Since he hadn’t gotten around to having cards printed yet, he helped himself to a stenographer’s notebook resting on the countertop, along with the accompanying pen, and wrote down his cell and office numbers. “I’d appreciate a call if you remember anything else,” he said. He started to turn away, but Martine stopped him with a remark meant to sound offhand, most likely, but falling a ways short.
“I hear you’re serving as Byron Cahill’s lawyer.”
“Not exactly,” Steven said, after an inaudible sigh. “As you know, Byron is no longer a suspect. I’m just trying to help out in whatever way I can.”
“It was good of Tom to take the boy in for a while,” Martine said. “Byron and Velda haven’t had it easy, that’s for sure. Do you think they’ll catch Nathan Carter anytime soon?” She stopped for a breath, shuddered slightly. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies, knowing he’s still out there. What if he comes back and tries again, since he didn’t get to keep the money last time?”
“I don’t think he will,” Steven said in parting.
It wasn’t much, but at the moment, it was all he had to offer.
Feeling as if he’d made no progress at all—what else was new?—Steven left the Stop & Shop and drove to his office, passing the Sunflower Café on the way. The place was doing a brisk business, as usual, the parking lot packed with cars, motorcycles and pickup trucks.
Steven cruised on past the courthouse next, casually stealing a glance in that direction, as he did every time he came into town for any reason. Melissa’s roadster was parked in its usual place, with the top up and a reflective shield across the inside of the windshield.
He considered stopping by to say hello—hello?—but soon discarded the idea.
What was there to say? Melissa had made up her mind about him, and about what he did for a living. She was an intelligent woman, a practicing attorney; at least in principle, she definitely understood that under the American judicial system, faulty though it was, everyone—guilty or innocent—has the right to counsel.
It seemed more probable that she was merely using that difference of opinion as an excuse to avoid anything remotely resembling a lifetime commitment. She’d admitted to caring a lot for Dan Guthrie, once upon a time, and Steven had seen what could only be called regret in her eyes when she spoke of Dan’s children, the two boys she’d expected to raise as her own.
She was clearly fond of Matt—a point in her favor, of course. Unless she’d been attracted to Steven because of the child, and only because of him.
He parked alongside his building, got out of the truck and almost forgot Zeke in the backseat. A cheerful yip reminded him that he wasn’t alone, so he retraced his steps, hooked a leash to Zeke’s collar, and lifted the dog out of the truck, setting him on the ground. Waiting.
Zeke sniffed the gravel for a while, checked out various thatches of weeds at the edges of the lot, then lifted a hind leg in front of the weathered log marking the boundary of the property on the Main Street side. Steven was still stumbling around in his own thoughts, too distracted, by his own reckoning, to be good for anything much—that day, at least.
He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, remembering the wild time he and Melissa had shared in his bed. Male egotism aside, he knew she hadn’t been faking her responses—he’d felt the subtle flexing of her body as she’d reached one orgasm and then another, felt the moisture of exertion on her silky skin and thrilled to her uninhibited cries of pleasure.
Steven shifted uncomfortably. Tried to turn his thoughts in another direction.
Zeke finished up and they headed for the side door.
Inside, Steven unsnapped the leash and left the dog to wander around the inner and outer offices until he’d found just the right place to curl up for a morning snooze. This involved some circling, some pawing at the carpet, and a couple of big sighs, but Zeke finally settled himself in a patch of sunlight in front of the window to the street, dropped off to sleep and began to snore.
Steven checked his messages.
Zip from Melissa, of course.
Two from Velda Cahill; she’d been calling regularly since her release from the clinic in Indian Rock a few days back, wanting to know what was being done to find Nathan Carter and making a lot of noise about how Byron ought to come back home ASAP.
Byron, on the other hand, seemed happy enough bunking with Tom Parker and Elvis—the kid did his share of the yard and household chores to earn his keep, according to the sheriff, and although not much was said, they all got along just fine. In his spare time, Byron helped out over at the animal shelter, and there was talk about his getting hired steady, bringing home a paycheck, however modest.
So far, so good.
Except that Carter was still at large, of course.
Settled at his desk, Steven booted up his computer, checked his email for the first time that day.
Conner was on his way, he learned, and Davis and Kim were coming along, too, bringing their RV. Everybody was up for a visit and a good old-fashioned rodeo, according to Conner’s brief message.
Steven sighed. Brody was headed for Stone Creek, too, planning on competing in the bronc-riding events, both bareback and saddle.
His twin cousins were about to meet up, after all this time, though neither one of them knew it.
Once again, Steven wondered if he’d made the right decision by keeping the impending collision of Creed tempers under his hat, so to speak.
It was the hope—however frail it might be—that Brody and Conner would finally work things out and get on with being brothers that prevented Steven from issuing a storm warning. Those two were both stubborn to the bone, and if either found out that the other one was going to be in Stone Creek for the rodeo, neither of them would show up.
Therefore, Steven thought, as he tapped out a response to Conner’s email, revealing nothing, the chips would have to fall where they may.
* * *
MELISSA WENT FOR a run on Friday morning—something she hadn’t done for a few days—and took special care with her hair, makeup and clothes when she got back home.
It wasn’t because of that stupid “intervention” Olivia, Ashley and Meg had sprung on her the evening before, though. No, sirree. She would be leaving her office early to put the finishing touches on the parade that would kick off Stone Creek Rodeo Days that night, and after that, the whole thing would be over.
Looking good was her way of celebrating, that was all.
The morning went by quickly, for once.
She skipped lunch, feeling too nervous to eat, and, conversely, loaded up on coffee. At three forty-five, leaving her assistant to hold down the fort for what little remained of the workday, Melissa headed out.
Ferociously hungry all of a sudden, and telling herself that relaxing her dietary standards a little didn’t mean she was on a greased track to hell, she downed a burger from the drive-through place and then, after steeling herself, drove over to the high school, where the Parade Comm
ittee had gathered, together with the parade participants and their various floats.
Horses were arriving in trailers, all of them on loan from Stone Creek Ranch, since the sheriff’s posse didn’t actually ride much, except for occasions like this one. They definitely didn’t saddle up and chase outlaws into the hills, as Sam O’Ballivan and his pals had back in those thrilling days of yesteryear.
Brad and several of his ranch hands were supervising, while members of the posse—all of them honorary deputies—argued over who’d put on the most weight since last year’s parade.
Although some of the floats hadn’t lumbered in yet, there were nearly a dozen crepe paper–bedecked monstrosities in evidence. The standout float was the Chamber of Commerce’s contribution—a massive replica of a nearby ski slope, made almost entirely of toilet paper. It even had trees, the branches weighted down with white tissue “snow,” and spangles of glitter made the whole shebang sparkle in the sun.
Adelaide Hillingsley and Bea Brady, both wearing their best polyester pants suits and sporting fresh perms, were already nose to nose.
“You’re just mad because our float is better than yours!” Adelaide challenged.
Bea looked as though she might be getting ready to throw a punch, so Melissa maneuvered herself between the two women.
“Ladies,” she said, “let’s remember that we’re all friends here.”
“Not anymore,” Bea scowled.
Adelaide gestured toward the toilet-paper extravaganza. “It’s beautiful and you know it!”
The thing really did look good.
Over the course of the holiday weekend, folks would drop slips of paper, their vote for the best float in that year’s parade, into a mammoth plastic raffle drum set up in the middle of the fairgrounds. On Sunday afternoon, the votes would be tallied and Bill Norman, who always emceed the rodeo, would announce the winner.
A trophy would be presented.
And Melissa had figured out this much, anyway: Both Bea and Adelaide wanted the honor.
Melissa cast an imploring glance in her brother’s direction, but Brad didn’t look her way, though even from a distance she could see a little grin resting lightly on that famous mouth. Unless she missed her guess, he was pretending that he hadn’t noticed what was going on.
“It’s too late to do anything about the float now,” Melissa said to Bea, in what she hoped was a sympathetic tone. “Let’s have a look at yours, shall we?”
Bea looked apoplectic, but she led Melissa away from the offending mobile ski slope to show off the Garden Club’s entry, a giant bouquet of colorful papier-mâché flowers of all types and sizes, the whole display perched precariously on top of somebody’s farm tractor.
“It’s lovely,” Melissa said, and she meant it. Enormous amounts of thought, effort and plain old hard work had gone into the construction of that float, and the others, too.
Bea was still upset. “Rules are rules,” she exclaimed. “Adelaide Hillingsley thinks they apply to everyone but her!”
By then, cars were pulling up, spilling out uniformed members of the Stone Creek High School marching band.
Melissa thought quickly. “We have to set a good example in front of the children,” she said. “So let’s keep things as dignified as we can.”
Bea huffed at that, but her temper seemed to subside a little.
Melissa patted her back, cast another admiring look over the Garden Club float. “You’ve outdone yourselves, you and the Garden Club,” she said. “As always.”
The band kids began to toot on horns and beat on drums right about then. Mercifully, conversation was impossible.
Melissa fled, taking care to avoid Adelaide Hillingsley and her float as assiduously as she meant to avoid Bea.
Just get through this, she told herself. One crisis at a time.
She sought Brad out next, found him still over by the horse trailers, making sure the animals were unloaded properly.
“Thanks for all the help,” Melissa said, putting a sharp point on the words in case her brother failed to notice the irony in her tone and in her expression.
Brad grinned at her. “There was a problem?” he asked innocently. “I guess I missed it.”
Melissa punched him in the arm, but it was a halfhearted move. If there had been a real problem, she knew, her big brother would have been the first one to jump in and help.
“I see the intervention worked,” he said, when she didn’t say anything.
She gave a derisive little snort. “That wasn’t an intervention,” she said. “It was just plain meddling.”
“You know Meg and Ashley and Liv love you,” Brad told her. His eyes were still twinkling. He went through the motions of looking at the watch he wasn’t wearing. “They ought to be here anytime now,” he added. “Meg said you needed their help with the parade.”
“If I don’t keep Bea and Adelaide apart until this is over,” Melissa replied ruefully, “I may need help from the National Guard.”
Brad laughed, laid a hand on her shoulder, but his eyes had turned serious. “You all right, shortstop?” he asked her.
The childhood nickname, familiar as it was, made Melissa’s throat tighten a little. “Not you, too,” she managed to say.
“When Meg worries, I worry,” Brad replied gently. “It’s part of my job description as a husband-father-brother.”
“I’m fine,” Melissa insisted.
“Not so much,” Brad said.
Ashley showed up then, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved yellow blouse, her fair hair falling in a long braid down the center of her back. Joining her brother and sister, she smiled. “I told you I would be here to give you a hand with the parade,” she said brightly, rubbing her palms together in anticipation and ignoring Melissa’s somewhat impatient glance. “What needs doing?” Before Melissa could answer, Olivia and Meg arrived, Meg standing on tiptoe to kiss Brad on the cheek. He slid an arm around his wife and held her against his side for a moment.
“This had better not be another intervention,” Melissa warned. She was still a little insulted by the whole concept, frankly.
Olivia was, as usual, completely undaunted. She’d once treated a wild stallion for injuries, up in the hills, and it took more than an irritated younger sister to throw her off her game.
“The last one must have worked,” she said, after looking Melissa over. “Your hair has been combed and you’re wearing makeup.”
Melissa made a face, but then she had to laugh.
“You’re impossible,” she said, addressing Olivia, Meg and Ashley, all together.
“Looks like the ice cream shop’s float is in trouble,” Ashley said, shading her eyes as she watched the giant cone, made of cardboard and crepe paper, teeter wildly to one side.
Meg pushed up the long sleeves of her fitted blue T-shirt. “Let’s go see what we can do to help before that thing falls over and spooks one of these horses or something,” she said to Ashley and Olivia. There were at least a dozen of the animals nearby, waiting to carry the sheriff’s posse on a triumphant sweep along the relatively short length of Main Street.
“Good idea,” Melissa said. And they were off.
The horses, as it happened, were doing just fine—Brad and his wranglers had brought them to town and unloaded them early for the express purpose of giving them time to get used to being off the range and in a fairly unfamiliar environment.
“They mean well,” Brad told Melissa, watching the three women march over to take charge of the giant ice cream cone and the overwhelmed junior management type trying to contain the thing.
“I know,” Melissa said, with a little sigh. Then, as a farewell, she added, “Later.”
“Later,” Brad confirmed.
It was surprising, Melissa discovered over the next couple of hours, how many things could go wrong with one small-town parade.
The convertible that was supposed to carry the mayor of Stone Creek, that year’s grand marshal, threw a rod.
The tractor supporting the Chamber of Commerce’s infamous toilet-paper float stalled out, and the teenage rodeo queen had to borrow a horse from Brad, because her own turned up lame.
And those were the easy things.
Nonetheless, Melissa found herself enjoying the distraction. At least, being so busy, she wasn’t brooding over her life in general and Steven Creed in particular.
By five minutes to six, all the participants had taken their proper place in line. The high-school marching band was in formation, tuning up their instruments for the umpteenth time. The sheriff’s posse, led by Tom Parker, of course, were all safely mounted on patient horses—the kind Meg and Brad generally reserved for inexperienced dudes.
The oversize ice cream cone had been stabilized.
Another convertible had been found to replace the one that had broken down earlier, so the mayor was riding high and all set to wave to the crowds on the sidewalks, and the rodeo queen was sporting a dazzling smile and plenty of sequins.
Ona Frame, well along the road to recovery after her gallbladder surgery, looked on from a place of honor.
It was all good.
“Melissa!”
She turned at the sound of her name and saw Matt Creed about half a block farther along Main Street, perched on Steven’s shoulders. They were clearly part of a group, Steven and Matt; a good-looking couple in their fifties, dressed Western, stood close by.
The man had to be Steven’s father, Melissa thought, distracted in spite of her better intentions. Same build, same hair color, same innate sense of quiet confidence. The sight of them all made her throat catch, for some reason, and caused the backs of her eyes to tingle slightly. She smiled and waved to the little boy, pretending not to notice the man, and turned to give the signal that would start the parade rolling.
The Cowboy Way Page 27