less, pathetic, sorry excuse for a human being. I didn't even
cry when I heard he'd died. I was glad. He was a miserable,
scummy son of a bitch who never did a single goddamn thing
for me except make me ashamed that he was my father. And
he wasn't any happier about that than I was. Dickweed--
that's what he called me, usually right before he clouted me
alongside the head. I was a liability to him.
"But, like a fool, I kept pretending, wishing, that we were
a family. I was always after him to come watch me play ball.
One night he showed up at a game. He created such a scene
stumbling up the bleachers, tearing down one of the banners
when he fell, that I wanted to die of embarrassment. I told
him never to come again. I hated him. Hated," he repeated,
rasping the word.
"I couldn't invite friends to my house because it was such
a pigsty. We ate out of tin cans. I didn't know there were
things like dishes on the table and clean towels in the bathroom
until I was invited to other kids' houses. I made myself
as presentable as possible when I went to school."
Alex regretted having lanced this festering wound, but she
was glad he was talking freely. His childhood explained a
lot about the man. But he was describing an outcast, and that
didn't mesh with what she knew about him.
"I've been told that you were a ringleader, that the other
kids gravitated to you. You made the rules and set the mood.''
' 'I bullied myself into that position," he told her.' 'In grade
school, the other kids made fun of me, everybody except
Celina. Then I got taller and stronger and learned to fight. I
fought dirty. They stopped laughing. It became much safer
for a kid to be my friend than my enemy."
His lip curled with scorn. "This'll knock your socks off,
Miss Prosecutor. I was a thief. I stole anything that we could
eat or that might come in useful. You see, my old man
couldn't keep a job for more than a few days without going
on a binge. He'd take what he'd earned, buy himself a bottle
or two, and drink himself unconscious. Eventually, he gave
up trying to work. I supported us on what I could earn after
school doing odd jobs, and on what I could get away with
stealing."
There was nothing she could say. He had known there
wouldn't be. That's why he'd told her. He wanted her to feel
rotten and small-minded. Little did he know that their childhoods
hadn't been that dissimilar, although she'd never gone
without food. Merle Graham had provided for her physical
needs, but she'd neglected her emotional ones. Alex had
grown up feeling inferior and unloved. Empathetically she
said, "I'm sorry, Reede."
"I don't want your goddamn pity," he sneered. "I don't
want anybody's. That life made me hard and mean, and I
like it that way. I learned early on to stand up for myself
because it was for damn sure nobody else was going to
go to bat for me. I don't depend on anybody but myself. I
don't take anything for granted, especially people. And I'm
damned and determined never to sink to the level of my old
man."
"You're making too much out of this, Reede. You're too
sensitive.'
"Uh-huh. I want people to forget that Everett Lambert ever
lived. I don't want anyone to associate me with him. Ever."
He clenched his teeth and hauled her up to just beneath
his angry face by the lapels of her coat. "I've lived down
the unfortunate fact that I was his son for forty-three years.
Now, just when folks are about to forget it, you come along
and start asking nosy questions, raising dead issues, reminding
everybody that I crawled up out of the gutter to get where
lam."
He sent her backwards with a hard push. She caught herself
against the gate of a stall. "I'm sure that no one holds your
father's failures against you."
"You don't think so? That's the nature of a small town,
baby. You'll find out how it is soon enough, because they'll
start comparing you to Celina."
"That won't bother me. I'll welcome the comparisons."
"Are you so sure?"
"Yes."
"Careful. When you round a blind corner, you'd better
know what's waiting for you."
"Care to be less oblique?"
"It could go one of two ways. Either you won't measure
up to her, or you'll find out that being like her isn't all that
terrific."
"Well, which is it?"
His eyes swept over her. "Like her, looking at you reminds
a man that he is one. And like her, you use that to your
advantage."
"Meaning?"
"She was no saint."
"I didn't expect her to be."
''Didn't you?'' he asked silkily. ''I believe you did. I think
you've created this fantasy mother in your head and you
expect Celina to fulfill it for you."
"That's ridiculous." Her strenuous denial sounded juvenile
and obstinate. More calmly, she said, "It's true that
Grandma Graham thought the sun rose and set on Celina. I
was brought up to believe she was everything a young woman
should be. But I'm a woman myself now, and mature enough
to realize that my mother was made of flesh and blood, with
flaws, just like everybody else."
He studied her face for a moment. "Just remember that I
warned you," he said softly. "You should go back to the
Westerner, pack up your designer clothes and your legal
briefs, and head for Austin. Leave the past alone. Nobody
around here wants to remember that blight on Purcell's
history--particularly with that license hanging in the balance.
They'd much rather leave Celina lying dead in this stable
than--"
"This stable?" Alex gasped. "My mother was killed
here?"
It was clear to her that he hadn't intended to let that slip.
He cursed beneath his breath before answering curtly, "That's
right."
"Where? Which stall?"
"It doesn't mat--"
"Show me, damn you! I'm sick to death of your half
answers and evasions. Show me where you found her body
that morning, Sheriff." She enunciated the last word carefully,
reminding him that it was his sworn duty to protect
and serve.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the
door through which she had entered the barn. At the second
stall in the row, he halted. "Here."
Alex came to a full stop, then moved forward slowly until
she was even with Reede. She turned to face the stall. There
was no hay in it, just the rubber-covered floor. The gate had
been removed because no horse was occupying the stall. It
looked innocent, almost sterile.
"There hasn't been a horse boarded in this stall since it
happened." Scornfully, he added, "Angus has a sentimental
streak."
Alex tried to envision a bloody corpse lying in the stall,
but couldn't. She raised inquiring eyes to Reede.
The skin seemed more tautly stretched across his cheekbones,
and the vertical lines that framed his mouth appeared
more pronounced than they had a few moments ago, when
he had been angry. A visit to the scene of the crime wasn't
as easy for him as he wanted to pretend.
"Tell me about it. Please."
He hesitated, then said, "She was lying diagonally, her
head in that corner, her feet about here." He touched a spot
with the toe of his boot. "She was covered with blood. It
was in her hair, on her clothes, everywhere." Alex had heard
jaded homicide detectives discussing gory murder sites with
more emotion. Reede's voice was hollow and monotonal, but
his features were stark with pain. ' 'Her eyes were still open.''
"What time was that?" she asked huskily.
"When I found her?" She nodded, finding it difficult to
speak. "Dawn. Around six-thirty."
"What were you doing here at that time of day?"
"I usually started mucking the stables around seven. That
particular morning I was worried about the mare."
"Oh, yes, the one that had foaled the day before. So, you
had come to check on her and the foal?"
"That's right."
Tears were shimmering in her eyes as she raised them to
his. "Where were you the night before?"
"Out."
"All night?"
"Since supper time, yes."
"Alone?"
His lips narrowed with irritation. "If you want more answers,
Counselor, bring the case to trial."
"I plan to."
As she brushed past him on her way to the door, he caught
her arm and drew her up against him. He felt hard and powerfully
male. "Miss Gaither," he growled in irritation and
impatience, "you're smart. Drop this. If you don't, somebody's
likely to get hurt."
"Namely?"
"You."
"How?"
He didn't actually move; he just inclined his body closer
to hers. "There are any number of ways."
It was a threat, only subtly veiled. He was physically capable
of killing a woman, but what about emotionally?
He seemed to have a low opinion of women in general,
but according to Junior, he had loved Celina Graham. At one
time, she had wanted to marry Reede. Maybe everyone, including
Reede, had taken for granted that they would marry
until Celina had married Al Gaither and gotten pregnant with
Alex.
Alex didn't want to believe that Reede could have killed
Celina under any circumstances, but she certainly didn't want
to believe he had killed Celina because of her.
He was chauvinistic, arrogant, and as testy as a rattler.
But a killer? He didn't look like one. Or was it just that
she'd always had a weakness for dark blond hair and green
eyes; for tight, faded jeans and worn leather coats with fur
collars; for men who could wear cowboy boots without looking
silly; for men who walked and talked and smelled and
sounded and felt consummately male?
Reede Lambert was all of that.
Disturbed more by his effect on her senses than by his
cautionary words, she pulled her arm free and backed toward
the door.
"I have no intention of dropping this investigation until I
know who killed my mother and why. I've waited all my life
to find out. I won't be dissuaded now."