“Not really.” But she saw the hurt and worry in his eyes, felt tears brim in her own eyes, and changed her mind. “Actually, yes. I’d like it if you could help. I was—remember when you used to put me on your shoulders so I could reach the apples?”
“You remember that?”
She nodded, relieved at the spark in his eyes. “It was such fun.”
They filled the half-bushel basket to overflowing, and Wendy didn’t protest when her father picked it up to carry it down to the house. She was tired, her eyelids heavy—she hadn’t slept well.
As they walked slowly back to the house, the wind picking up, rustling in the tall grass and the bright leaves, he told her that Juan, the doorman, wasn’t who he said he was. That it was unlikely he’d been killed because he was trying to protect Wendy.
“Then who was he?” she asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Why was he killed?”
Her father shook his head. “We don’t know that, either.”
“Are you working on the investigation?”
“No. I’m here for you, Wendy. That’s it. You’re my only concern.”
“Aunt Juliet—”
“I’m not worried about her.”
But he was—Wendy could see it in his eyes.
She thought up another line to her poem. When they reached the house, she left him in the kitchen with the apples and ran up to her room, wanting to start her poem while it was still fresh in her mind.
She grabbed a pencil and paper and sat in her window seat, but no words came. She stared at the hills, the brightly colored leaves, unaware she was crying until a fat, hot tear dripped onto her hand.
Twelve
Ethan pushed open the door to the car he’d rented at Lubbock airport and sat there in the driveway of his childhood home, breathing in the warm evening west Texas air. New York might have been on another planet. Juliet Longstreet might have been an alien sent to tempt him.
The front room of the sawn-wood-and-stone house where he’d grown up was lit. His older brother, Luke, had a place on the property, where he lived with his wife and two boys, five and seven. Ethan hadn’t seen them since Char’s funeral.
He wondered what his life would be like now if he’d never left home for West Point.
The ranch was five thousand acres of mixed terrain—mesquite flats, open prairie, rolling hills, canyons. Some of it was planted with wheat, some fenced off for cattle and horses. His brother was into native grasses. A springfed creek ran through the east end of the property, but fresh drinking water was scarce and a constant issue.
Off to the west, the silhouette of a solitary windmill stood out against a fiery-yellow setting sun and orange sky.
Jethro, the family’s ancient coonhound, slowly picked himself up off a cool spot on the rock driveway and wagged his tail. Ethan got out of the car. “Hey, old boy.” He scratched the dog’s bony head, felt Jethro’s recognition. “Yeah. It’s me. I’m home.”
The dog went to the car and peered into the open door.
Ethan felt a pang of physical pain. “Sorry, fella. Char’s not here.”
The hound looked around at him.
“You’re right. It’s my fault.”
There was no one home. His folks were in Denver on ranch business. The lights were on an automatic timer, which amused Ethan because the ranch was isolated, the closest neighbors miles away. The closest neighbors being the Carhills.
He walked through the country kitchen into the living room with its huge stone fireplace and tall windows that overlooked cottonwoods and cedar, the sky darkening, no city lights or skyscrapers to mask the coming of night.
Amid family photographs atop the old player piano, he spotted Char’s smile on their wedding day. He stood next to her in his dress uniform. It might have been a million years ago, but it was just five.
Ethan remembered how confident he’d been, so damn sure he could handle whatever came next in his life—that he could control it.
Jethro, who’d followed him inside, rubbed against his legs. Ethan hadn’t called his brother, but he expected Luke would be checking on the house and the dog later.
A small framed picture of his parents on their thirtieth anniversary caught his attention. The Carhills had thrown a surprise party for them. Faye and Johnson were in the picture, smiling, good-looking, friends of the Brookers for life. Ham, still in high school at the time, hadn’t attended the party. Ethan didn’t even know if the Carhills had invited their only child.
He stopped fooling himself. He hadn’t come home to make peace with his ghosts.
He’d drive out to the Carhills in the morning.
He was here for answers.
Juliet threaded her way through the content crowd of loud, overweight, drunk men and sat at the same grime-encrusted wooden table where she’d last met George O’Hara. The Bronx bar still smelled of stale cigars and urine.
O’Hara joined her, and she could feel the floor shift under her as he lowered his bulk onto the chair across from her. Tony Cipriani had been to a club to see his comedy act and said he was very funny. “You look tired, Deputy.”
“It’s been a long couple days.”