She’d put in a call to Ruth on the way, sick at heart that Jimmy Woodcock had sensationalized her story as only he could. When Ruth picked up, Kat immediately began apologizing for the leak in the department, swearing she would get to the bottom of it, but Ruth told her not to worry.
“I spoke to Woodcock myself,” she revealed, to Kat’s surprise. “I called your cell, but you didn’t pick up, so then I phoned the department. You weren’t in, so I ended up talking to Ricki. She was so sympathetic and determined to get the guy that it was easy to talk to her. It was good, and then I asked myself what I was waiting for. She knows, Sam knows, my parents know. So I called Jimmy and gave him the bare bones story.”
“You left Shiloh and me out of it.”
“He didn’t need every detail. He just needed to report that I was raped. He was bound to add his own spin, but it could’ve been a lot worse. Honestly, Kat, it’s really helped to have Ethan here, encouraging me. Woodcock’s a lowlife, and it’s too bad he owns the paper, but . . . so what. We need to catch this guy.” Kat could almost hear her brother’s words coming from Ruth. “This is going to sound weird,” she’d gone on, “but I think Jimmy was deeply shocked by my story. Shocked that it happened to me. You know, good girl, Ruthie, and all that. He could have been covering up, I suppose, but I just don’t think he’s that good of an actor . . . so I’m thinking of moving him down on my suspect list.”
They’d talked a bit more, but then the entrance to the Kincaid ranch had come into view, and Kat had wound down the call.
“Maybe my story will help get this guy. Someone might remember something, or maybe it’ll give them courage to come forward. Something,” Ruth had added hopefully just before they hung up.
“I’m glad you’re with Ethan,” Kat blurted back, meaning it.
Now, she drove through the gates and down the long drive that circled in front of the sprawling two-story ranch house with its flanking wings. There were new boards on the porch, and the shutters looked freshly painted. She took in three deep breaths and exhaled them and was staring at her hands, still clenched around the steering wheel, when her cell phone rang. She dug through her purse, completely aware that she was glad of the distraction. It was her father, and that gave her pause, but in the end she answered, “Hi, Dad.”
“Where are you? Are you at work?”
“Yeah . . .”
“You don’t sound too sure. You’re not on your way to Massey’s, are you?”
“No, I’m at the Kincaid ranch.” She gave her father a brief update, fully aware she was going against department protocol since this wasn’t part of the Pearson investigation, but she wanted Patrick to know what and whom she was facing.
He understood immediately, warning grimly, “Be careful with the Byrds.”
“I can’t seem to get away from them,” she said on a sigh.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Look, I gotta go deal with this, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“I wanted you to know that I had dinner with Goldie.”
“Great. Can we talk about this later?”
“Sure enough. Ruth’s client is probably Hank Eames. That’s the only guy Goldie’s seen going into her office who fills the bill.”
Kat had a mental image of Eames, and a cold feeling settled between her shoulder blades as she recalled Shiloh’s words: You know we know Ruthie’s rapist. He seemed familiar to us. He sure did to me, and he did to you too.
Could Hank Eames be the guy?
What was Ruth’s mantra? Wide girth . . . something. . . thick something . . .
Kat had mostly seen him in profile, but his face had been obscured. His body, though . . .
“Katrina?”
The ranch house front door opened, and Blair strolled onto the porch. Through the windshield, her gaze moved upward from his cowboy boots, to his jeans with the dull-silver belt buckle, to his insouciant smile, the amusement in his eyes below the tip of his hat. A rush of emotion ran through her—annoyance, breathlessness, a rush of inexplicable desire. Man, she didn’t want to want him. It was downright perplexing that she did.
“I’ll call you, Dad.” She clicked off and stepped out of her Jeep into a blasting July sun. Her scalp prickled with the heat. Mentally tamping down on her uneasy stomach, she strode his way.
“Thought I was going to see that back bumper in my grill the other day,” he drawled, nodding toward her Jeep.
“You snuck up on me,” she said shortly.
“Did I?”
He was staring at her in a way that made her feel he was asking a different question than the one she heard, but she ignored him. “Where’s Noel?”
“Out back. Come on through.” He opened the screen door and pushed in the oak front door with a booted foot. Kat heard an approaching vehicle and looked around.
“The Brinkmans,” Blair said. “And the Byrds.”
They both waited as Rinda and John Brinkman, the Byrds’ oldest daughter and son-in-law, and silver-haired Paul Byrd and his wife, sad-eyed Ann, moved toward them. John’s face was a study in contained fury, while Rinda’s face was flushed with color—embarrassment, it turned out. Paul glared at Kat as if the whole thing was her fault, while Ann regarded her anxiously, apparently feeling the same way.
“Come on in,” Blair invited, holding the door for all of them. Kat waited to bring up the rear with Blair, who whispered in her ear, “You do something to piss off Grandma and Grandpa?”
“I’m Patrick Starr’s daughter.”
“Ahh . . .”
They all trundled through the house to the back porch, where Mike, the foreman, a brawny, fifty-something man with a wide chest and muscular arms, was leaning against a back rail and whittling on a small piece of wood. Three tween boys were seated in a row on a wooden bench, all sitting with straight backs and sober expressions. Their eyes swung as one to the Brinkmans, and when Noel saw his father, he shrank back and looked at the floor.
Paul Byrd looked around, glaring, then his angry eyes landed back on Kat. His gaze skated down her slim frame, centering on her midsection, and Kat felt herself go cold. He knows. Rhianna told him.
“What happened?” John Brinkman asked Noel, but it was Mike who brought him up-to-date on the horse prank. Noel’s father looked stricken, and Noel’s chin sank down further. His friends tried to look at anything but the group of adults on the porch.
“What were you thinking?” John demanded.
“I dunno,” Noel mumbled.
Paul Byrd said evenly, “I’d prefer to keep this matter out of the hands of the Sheriff’s Department.”
“That will be up to Mr. Crutchens,” Kat answered.
“Has he been told yet?” Byrd was laser-focused on Kat. She wasn’t certain the others were aware of their silent little war, but she sure was.
“Not yet,” Blair put in. “But it’s kinda hard to hide the, uh, sentiment on the horse’s hide.”
“He’s just such an a-hole,” Noel muttered.
“Noel!” Rinda cried.
“Well, he is.”
Byrd looked like he was going to yank his grandson to his feet and shake him. Kat stepped forward instinctively, and so did Blair. Everyone else looked stunned.
Byrd rounded on Kat. “If Hal Crutchens wants to file a report, he can file a report. We don’t need you keeping score!”