He’d been sent here just after being interrogated by Roger Phelps, some sort of private eye his father had hired. The detective was patient, talking slowly, luring Zach into saying things he hadn’t intended. Zach had left the interview feeling as if Phelps considered him a prime suspect in London’s kidnapping. He’d thought about telling the truth, but couldn’t see what good it would have done to rat on Jason about the whore. Who cared? One incident wasn’t related to the other. Zach had his own moral code, loose though it may be. One thing he never did was snitch.
After the interview with Phelps, he’d been shipped out here. Witt had figured that long hours working on the ranch, bucking hay, stretching fence line, herding cattle, and wearing himself out in the saddle would be good for him, better than the dreaded boarding school that had been a constant threat ever since London had disappeared. Witt had told his son that he thought the endless hours of work would keep him out of trouble, and Zach hadn’t argued. He’d wanted out of the house, away from the suspicious glances thrown in his direction by everyone in the family, far from the distraction of his stepmother and nowhere near the cops. Jack Logan, like Roger Phelps, seemed to think he was guilty of all kinds of crimes.
If they only knew.
Sure, he’d had his trouble with the law. He’d been caught as a minor in possession of alcohol more times than he’d like to admit, and he’d stolen the hearse from the local funeral home and gone joyriding, leaving the funeral director and a grieving family fit to be tied. Witt had been forced to do some fast talking on that one so that Zach, though underage, hadn’t been charged with grand theft auto. He’d been expelled from school for blowing up the faculty room john and he’d been in his share of fights and motorcycle accidents—some before he’d gotten his license.
Hell on wheels, Jack Logan had called him on more than one occasion.
Jason had stood up for his younger brother. “It’s just a phase, a kid sort of thing,” he’d told their father. “He’s rebelling a little, that’s all. No big deal. Let him do his thing.”
Kat had seemed amused. “I bet you did your own bit of hell-raising in your time, Witt,” she’d said when Witt, in a fury over the hearse incident, looked as if he’d wanted to strangle the boy he’d raised as his second son.
Nelson, each time Zach was returned home in the middle of the night, handcuffed and bleeding from some fight, had wanted all the intimate details and followed Zach around for days after, telling Zach how he hoped his brother had “kicked ass.”
Only Trisha had said nothing, smiling as if she were glad Zach was taking the heat instead of her.
Yeah, he’d been trouble for his folks and he didn’t really give a shit. That bothered Witt the worst, that Zach had no direction, no drive. At least Trisha had her art and Jason was going to be the best damned lawyer in the entire Northwest, but Zach had no ambition, no focus, didn’t seem interested in the hotel business, or the timber business, or anything remotely connected with Danvers International.
But Zach did love the ranch.
And he had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Why didn’t anyone believe him?
Sure, London had been a pain and Witt had spoiled her rotten, but, truth to tell, Zach had liked the little kid who could get away with anything just by smiling impishly up at her father while her blue eyes twinkled as if with a private secret. Anyone who could manipulate the old man was someone Zach respected. Even if she was only a precocious four-year-old.
He was sorry she was gone and had to keep his mind from wandering too far toward the murky thoughts of what had become of her. He, for one, had written her off as dead. Or else whoever kidnapped her wasn’t going to let her go—not after so long.
“Okay, that should do it!” Manny tested his post, and, satisfied that this section of fence would stand, gave Zach the high sign. “It’s Friday. Let’s call it a day.”
Zach checked his watch. Five-fifteen. Since he’d been at the ranch, a little over a week now, Manny hadn’t let him off work until eight at night. The routine had been the same. Dog tired, Zach had returned to the house each night, washed, eaten, and fallen asleep before nine, so that he would be ready for a new day starting at five the next morning.
He stripped off his bandanna, wiped the sweat and grime from his face, and walked to the shady banks of the creek where he’d left his horse after lunch. He could’ve ridden in the dusty cab of the truck, or even sat on the flatbed as it bounced along the rutted dirt roads of the ranch, but he preferred the horses and this one, Cyclone, was his favorite. A headstrong sorrel colt with four white stockings who was known to kick and bite, Cyclone was the fastest horse on the ranch.
“Come on, boy,” he said, hoisting the blanket and saddle onto the colt’s back. “It’s time.”
Ears back, the horse shifted and kicked but Zach was quick enough to dodge the blow and tighten the cinch. “You’re a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He swung into the saddle and yanked on the reins. “Well, that’s all right by me, ’cause I am, too. Hiya!” Heels pressed into the colt’s sides, he leaned forward in the saddle and Cyclone took off. Wind streamed through Zach’s hair and brought tears to his eyes. Spindly jack pine and red-barked ponderosa pine trees flashed by in a blur and once again Zach felt wild and free—as if he could do anything he damned well pleased.
He didn’t miss his siblings. Jason would sell his soul to the devil for a small amount of cash, while Trisha was rebelling in the best way she knew how—by getting involved with Mario Polidori, son of Witt’s old nemesis, yet again. Obviously she didn’t subscribe to the “once burned, twice shy,” theory. There were whispers that she was into drugs, though Zach had seen no evidence of it. As for Nelson—the kid was a pain—plain and simple. Ever since the kidnapping, Nelson had puppy-dogged after Zach, wanting to hear over and over again about the hooker and the thugs with the knife—like Zach was some kind of war hero. It bothered Zach because Nelson was a little on the soft side, his adoration a little too intense.
But London, she was another matter. He closed his mind to all thoughts of her, preferring to be numb rather than think about the horrors his little half-sister might have endured. “Come on,” he yelled at the colt.
Zach kicked the sorrel and the horse responded without a second’s hesitation, gathering speed like a comet streaking across the sky, approaching the ravine where the creek slashed through the field. Massive muscles bunched, then lengthened, and horse and rider were soaring across the rock-strewn chasm where only a thin stream of water trickled.
The colt landed with a thud on the pebble-strewn bank and, with renewed energy upon sight of the stables, ran flat out across the yellow stubble of the pasture. Grasshoppers and pheasants, wings flapping in a frenzy, were flushed from the straw.
Zach leaned low over the sorrel’s neck and urged the horse ever faster. Cyclone took the bit between his teeth, his legs flashing over the cracked earth. Wind screamed past his ears and sweat darkened the horse’s coat. Laughing for the first time in weeks, Zach yelled, “Move, you miserable hunk of horseflesh.”
Only when they were near the paddock did Zach pull back on the reins, wrestling control from the headstrong beast. “Slow down,” he growled, standing in the stirrups. By the time they entered the paddock, the colt had switched from a gallop to a trot and finally into a reluctant walk. Cyclone tossed his head, his bridle jangling as he fought the demanding demon on his back.
“You did good,” Zach said. Cyclone was blowing hard and Zach kept him moving, walking slowly, until the colt’s breathing was normal again. “That’s better.”
Zach didn’t see Trisha watching him, didn’t notice her lurking in the shadows of the scrub pine until he’d reined up at the fence and she climbed onto the top rail. With a sinking sensation, he knew he’d have to deal with his family again and suddenly his wings seemed clipped. All the old anger and resentment welled up in him and the ranch that had moments before appeared so vast quickly became confining and small.
“This place is a prison!” Trisha said as she pushed aside a long-needled branch encroaching over the fence.