by Mary Burton
Too early to tell if she’d made the right choice with Mitch, but, as with the grapes, all the analysis and thought simply translated into a gut feeling and hope.
The last time she’d reached out to really help another boy, she’d chosen Rory. She’d been filled with youthful optimism and a deeply rooted need to atone. She’d thought then if she could save him, she could somehow make up for the loss of Jeff and Sydney. And so she’d poured her heart and soul and love into him, and he’d lapped it up like a starving man. For weeks she’d thought perhaps she’d found a savior in Rory. Together they would heal.
Though Rory said all the right words about change and a brighter future, his actions told a different story. He was such a beautiful boy, and he caught everyone’s attention. The girls wanted him. The men resented him. At first she’d convinced herself the attention wasn’t important to him because he only had eyes for her.
But in the coming weeks, she realized he craved attention as much as he had drugs. He often stopped to speak to the girls and savored their flirting. Several times she’d spotted him lurking around the medical center, his expression lean and hungry. She’d known if not for her, he’d have stolen whatever could be sold or traded for a high. Never enough attention. Never enough drugs.
And then he’d left camp, and his promises to stay in touch had been forgotten.
Greer drew in a tight breath. She’d thought the years had softened the old wounds but seeing Mitch today had brought so much back. His eyes glistened with the same dullness she’d seen in Rory’s. The urge to rescue had risen up strong.
Mitch, like Rory, came with a family that did not trust or particularly like her. Whereas David Edwards had intimidated her twelve years ago, now she could handle him. Tec Bragg was another matter. He had a distinctive energy about him. Caged and prowling, it moved under the stony façade like an animal.
“Bragg,” she muttered as she pushed her hair off her face and sat back against the pillows.
If Ranger Tec Bragg was a likeable man, then he did a great job of hiding it. He wore the Ranger’s traditional attire but she sensed he’d chafed at the uniform. A tall, powerful man, he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Though she’d dealt with enough men like him in the fields and on the construction crews, she doubted any she’d ever encountered matched him in tenacity.
She reached for her laptop and searched Ranger Tec Bragg’s name, really not sure what would pop up. To her surprise there was an eight-month-old article about Bragg’s working on the border. A cartel had crossed into Texas and killed a half dozen Mexican nationals and two border agents. Bragg and a couple of other Rangers tracked the shooters to a small town miles inside the Texas border. The article had said there’d been fierce fighting. A standoff in a warehouse. The survivors would have been overrun if not for Bragg, who positioned himself on top of a vehicle with a rifle equipped with a night scope, and had fired. He’d received tremendous return fire, but he’d not flinched. He’d held his position until help had arrived.
It wasn’t what the article said that caught her attention but the image of Bragg leading a man away in cuffs. Bragg’s cheek was bleeding as if it had been slashed with a knife and his T-shirt was covered in dirt and blood. His expression was fierce to the point of feral.
Greer stared at the computer image of Bragg. His dark eyes projected an anger contacting like a bare-knuckled fist.
Had she made a mistake tangling with Bragg? No matter, she’d set out on a course and would not stop now. She could only hope he stayed clear of the vineyard. But with Mitch she’d be seeing him again.
She slid under the covers, hoping if she closed her eyes the caffeine would take pity and let her sleep. “Just a few hours,” she muttered. “Not much time. Barely a little.”
Breathing deeply, in and out, as she’d been taught so many years ago, her body did relax. She focused on breath and let the day go.
Soon she was asleep.
But slumber did not bring relief. Instead of blissful oblivion she found herself back behind the wheel of her brother’s new red sports car.
Her manicured hands clutched the wheel and the wind blew her blond hair. She felt free. Grown up. Her brother was in the back. And beside Elizabeth, Sydney lay with her head against the headrest.
Elizabeth had not begrudged them this night. It had been a great night. The party perfect. And Jeff had been the son any parent revered. She had been anxious to please her mother and quietly spirit away the overzealous brother who’d had a bit too much.
Elizabeth reached for the radio, switched stations, and turned up the volume. The moon was full and the stars bright.
She considered herself more grown up than most fifteen-year-old girls. A step ahead of the rest. She cranked the radio.
And when she’d first spotted the headlights on the horizon, she gave them little thought. She let the music wash over her. She approached a small two-lane bridge, knowing she was less than fifteen minutes from home.
However, as the two cars approached the bridge, the other car switched into her lane. For a moment she thought she’d imagined the move but quickly realized the other car was headed right toward her.
She laid on the horn, startling Jeff.
“What the hell, Elizabeth?” he shouted as he wiped the drool from his lip.
Elizabeth gripped the wheel, her gaze now darting wildly to the left and the right for an escape route. If they made it to the bridge, they’d collide.
She laid on the horn again.
“Shit!” Jeff shouted.
She had seconds to decide but those seconds dragged like minutes. Closer and closer. Fifty feet from the bridge.
Left was a stream, right trees.
The other car barreled toward her, gaining speed.
Jump or dive.
Her heart thundering in her chest, she jerked the wheel to the right and the sports car rumbled over the rutted ground and crashed head-on into a tree.
The next moments blurred in a barrage of pain, crunching metal, and blood.
Greer started awake, shoving a trembling hand through her hair as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Her palms sweating and her head throbbing. “Dammit.”
In the weeks after the accident she’d been haunted by the dream. It had been the same every time. The oncoming headlights. Jeff’s panicked expletive. And the crash.
Her next memory had been at the hospital. Later she learned from EMTs she’d talked about the other car. She was certain the other car had stopped. That the driver had spoken to her.
But she had no memory to offer more specifics.
In the end the police had determined she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. She’d been young. Inexperienced. No fault. Just a terrible accident.
Greer shook her head.
It hadn’t been an accident.
She’d known for a dozen years.
But that didn’t change the fact that two people were dead. And the burden of their deaths would always weigh on her.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday, June 4, 1 A.M.
David Edwards sat on the leather sofa in his study, surrounded by his richly bound first edition books, paintings of Texas landscapes, and a collection of knickknacks he’d paid a designer a fortune to choose.
On the mahogany table was a bundle of ten letters. Written twelve years ago, the writer’s handwriting was precise for a teen and the words surprisingly articulate. The letters had been written by Elizabeth Greer Templeton and sent to his brother, Rory. On orders from his father he’d confiscated the letters and had promised to destroy them. But when he’d opened them, he’d been curious about anyone who saw redeeming qualities in his brother.
Dear Rory,
Camp is not the same without you. We all miss the way you could make us laugh. I miss the way you hugged me and the way your eyes lit up when you told me I was pretty.
David sat back on the sofa staring at the letter as he sipped whiskey. After he’d read Elizabeth’
s first letter he’d done some research on her. It hadn’t been easy because her family guarded their secrets as closely as the Edwards family guarded theirs. But enough money opened the right doors at Shady Grove, and he’d gotten a copy of her file.
The instant he’d read her dossier he knew she was trouble. Nothing good would come of Rory’s dalliance with her or anyone else.
David continued to confiscate her letters to Rory and Rory’s to her. David had expected Elizabeth to give up on Rory, but she’d kept writing until finally he’d been moved to drive out to Shady Grove and speak to her. She’d been defiant, determined and insistent about visiting Rory. No threats had swayed her. She’d sworn she’d find a way. And she had tried. In the end, Rory, being Rory, had failed Elizabeth.
Over the last dozen years, he’d kept tabs on Elizabeth. He’d known all along she lived at Bonneville and had invested her trust fund in the vineyard. Financially, she was stretched thin and having Rory’s fortune would have been handy. He’d gone out of his way to ensure Rory never found her.
David had lied to the Rangers. He had not only spoken to Rory last week on the phone but had also seen him. His brother had been clear-eyed, clean, and lucid. He’d said he’d joined AA and NA and had been substance-free for eight months. His little brother had been proud of his accomplishment and showed him his sobriety chips. Rory had returned to make amends with his family and Elizabeth. When he came into his inheritance, he planned to do good things with it.
Good things. That idiot didn’t have a clue how to handle that kind of money. And he’d feared Elizabeth would soon gain control of the fortune.
David had been furious. He’d told Rory to leave her be because she wanted his money and not him. But Rory had been unusually stubborn and sworn he’d drive out to Bonneville in the morning.
A soft knock on his study door had him straightening. “Enter.”
His wife, Deidra, was a tall, slim blonde. She wore a silk nightgown and though she wasn’t wearing make-up her skin looked like porcelain. “David. It’s late.”
“I know. I’ll be there soon.”
“I miss you.” They’d been married two years now and she’d gotten in the habit of pressing. He didn’t like it.
“Soon,” he said sharply.
Deidra pouted but said no more as she eased out of the room and closed the door behind her.
David swirled his drink, watching as the light caught the cut edges. A smile played on his lips. But ol’ Rory had never made it. And he’d ensure none of those fuck-ups from Shady Grove poisoned his future.
Bragg pushed away from Rory Edwards’s murder-scene photos, rose, and stretched. He’d been studying the pictures for hours and had not made any new discoveries. Winchester had visited Tate’s bar and had shown Rory’s picture around. The place had been crowded and loud and the bartender hadn’t seen Rory. If the killer had met him there, no one had noticed.
Wheeler had gotten more calls from the media. Instead of answering them, he’d forwarded them to Bragg. He’d fielded what he could, said as little as he could get away with, but interest over the death of an Edwards was growing.
He moved into the kitchen and poured coffee from the pot. It was cold so he put the mug in the microwave. As the seconds ticked off, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to work the kinks free. When the microwave dinged, he took his cup and sipped. Bitter.
Sipping his coffee, he sat on the couch, considered clicking on the television, but decided against it. He reached for his cell and scrolled to the picture he’d snapped of Greer. Not the old photo but one taken recently by Rory. Of all the ones taken of her he’d liked this one the best. She stood on the porch of her house staring out over her vineyard. The sun was setting and orange-yellow light illuminated her face. He’d chosen the picture because it was the only one that hadn’t caught her frowning. In this image she looked almost at peace. Bragg traced his finger over the line of her jaw. Looking at her made him hard, hungry, and wanting more than he could put into words.
He frowned when he thought of Rory taking the picture. He didn’t like the idea of the guy watching her, stalking her.
No way he could have gotten close and she’d not seen him. So where had he been? He conjured the image of the terrain around her ranch house. There’d been a hill at three o’clock. He’d had to have been there. And the photo had to have been taken with a telephoto lens.
There’d been no camera in Rory’s room. Where was the camera? Where had he gotten it? He shifted his attention from Greer to the background. Thunderclouds formed in the distance. Monday’s rain clouds hadn’t materialized and there’d been no dark clouds in the sky. The last hard rain that area had seen had been three weeks ago. Everyone had reported Rory had been in town only a week. Had they been wrong? Had he been here longer? Or had someone else taken the photos?
“Get the fuck out of there!”
Mitch’s strangled cry shot down the hallway like a bullet.
Bragg jumped off the couch and ran down the hallway to the kid’s room. Mitch lay on his back, shirtless, a sheet twisted around his midsection as he thrashed back and forth. “Get the fuck out of there!”
Bragg crossed the room in three strides and reached for the boy’s shoulder.
“Mitch! Wake up!” he commanded.
As quick as a rattler, Mitch balled up his fist, drew it back, and swung. It hit Bragg square in the jaw.
The Ranger wasn’t prepared for the blow, and the pain cut through him, making him ball his own fists as he staggered back. Anger rose up in him like an animal and his first instinct was to strike back hard. Heart racing in his chest, he took a step back until he could corral the fury.
“Mitch,” he shouted. “Wake up!”
The kid started awake and sat up in bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing was labored and quick. His wild gaze slowly cleared.
“Mitch.” The calmness in Bragg’s voice surprised him.
“Yeah.” He shoved his fingers over his short hair.
“Bad dream?”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed his knuckle over the tender skin on his jaw. “Want to talk about it?”
Mitch shook his head and lay back down. “No.”
“Want a glass of water or a soda?”
He rolled on his side away from Bragg. “No. Thanks.”
A heavy silence hung between them as Bragg searched for the right words. He couldn’t find one so he backed out of the room. He closed the door partway, leaving it cracked so that light from the hallway could seep inside.
Bragg hadn’t planned on attending Greer’s fund-raiser but knew now he would. And though he could tell himself his interests were for Mitch or the case, he’d be lying. He wanted her for himself.
“When is she going to wake up?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson said.
He stared through the small window at Sara lying on the floor of the freezer. He’d turned the temperature down low, but not so low that it would kill her before she woke.
“Can’t you wake her?”
“I want her to wake up on her own.”
“Why?” she challenged.
“Why are you so impatient?”
“We don’t have a lot of time. If you’re going to keep to the schedule, we have only five more days.”
Jackson traced Sara’s image on the glass. “She’ll wake up soon, and we’ll meet our schedule.”
“How can you be sure?”
He smiled. “Because I am.”
“What about the one after her? Have you laid the groundwork?”
He frowned. “Yes. I’ve prepped all the rest. And I will deal with each in their own time.”
Chapter Nine
Wednesday, June 4, 8 A.M.
Greer sat in her office going over the details for the fund-raiser she was hosting for the Crisis Center. She’d started at the center years ago answering phones during the late-night hours. She’d planned to simply answer phone calls. Stay on the fringe. But so
mewhere along the way she’d caught the attention of Dr. Stewart, who became chairman of the nonprofit’s board last year. Dr. Stewart had liked Greer and invited her to join the committee.
Greer had said no at first but Dr. Stewart wasn’t an easy man to refuse so she’d promised to help a little. Give Dr. Stewart an inch, and he’d charm you out of a mile.
Greer had found herself on the marketing committee and somehow had agreed to host a fund-raiser at Bonneville.
No sense worrying how she’d gotten sucked into this event. She was here and all she could do was make the best of it.
Tables. Chairs. Signs. Food. Wine, of course. Her checklist was complete. She was good at logistics. Ask her to arrange the field workers for harvest. Done. Coordinate Bonneville’s booth at the growers’ association meeting. Easy. Handle a truck, broken irrigation lines, or bug infestation. No sweat. But ask her to deal directly with people, and she was damn near a mess.
She’d not always been like this. Before the accident she could walk up to anyone and start a conversation. Her parents had held many business cocktail parties, and they expected Greer and Jeff to make an appearance. Ironically, it was Jeffrey who didn’t like the limelight and Greer who filled the conversation lulls with lively chatter and laughter.
The crunch of gravel under tires had her looking out her office window toward the main entrance. No one came or left the vineyard’s main entrance without her seeing. She didn’t like surprises. Too many lawyers and reporters had surprised her at her parents’ Austin home after the accident. Twelve years had softened the leeriness but not broken it.
A white four-door sedan drove up in a cloud of dust, parking in front of the main tasting room. She didn’t recognize the car and found herself tensing as she rose. She still hated surprises.
The driver’s-side door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in soft pinks appeared. Dark sunglasses hid her face but Greer would have recognized the stiff-backed posture anywhere. Her mother.