Confessions (28 page)

“No.” Her gaze was inordinately serious. A line of tension circled her lips. “Not the case.” She swallowed, feeling horribly as if she were fourteen again, asking Johnny Patterson to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the high school gym.

“We'll talk later.” Since she was still hanging on to his right hand, he used his left to brush some tangled hair away from her face. “After you've had some sleep.”

“Later,” she agreed reluctantly, wishing she could ask him to stay with her, then reminding herself that it was more important he find whoever it was that ran her off the road.

Trace took her uncharacteristic acquiescence as a sign
of how emotionally drained she was. Knowing he should leave, but unwilling to go without at least one taste of those silken lips, he lowered his head and kissed her.

His mouth was soft, yet firm. Warm. Tender. As she sank into its gentle heat, Mariah realized on some distant level that this kiss was oddly different from the others they'd shared.

His mouth was as sensual as ever, but careful. Not the slightest bit tentative, but testing. As if his lips were echoing the unreadable question she'd seen in his pewter gray eyes just before their lips had met.

The kiss lingered. Mariah felt herself drifting on slow, easy tides of rising desire. When he finally backed away, she viewed in his eyes again that same serious question she'd felt on his lips.

“Be a good girl,” he said, running his hand down her tangled hair, “and do what the doctor ordered.”

Her temper predictably flared. “I told you—”

“I know. You're not a girl.” His fingers cupped her chin and he treated her to another short, fiery kiss that affected her even more than the first. “And even when you were, you were never—ever—good.”

The dancing devils in his eyes assured her she'd been expertly baited. “You did that on purpose.”

“I wanted to put some color in your cheeks.” He ran the back of his hand down the side of her face and watched, satisfied as even deeper color bloomed.

“Don't toy with me, Callahan.” She was smiling when she said it.

Because he was tempted to slip his hand beneath the sheet that was, at this very moment, slipping off her bare legs, he stuck his hands into his pockets. “As soon as the doc gives you a clean bill of health in the morning, I'm taking you home, where I intend to spend several long
and stolen hours toying with you in every way imaginable. And a few unimaginable ones as well.”

Smiling her pleasure, she ran her hand down the front of his shirt. Then lower still, feeling a surge of feminine power as she felt him stir against her palm.

“Equal time, Callahan. Don't I get to toy with you?” she asked with a coy seductiveness she'd never used with any other man.

His answering grin caused lines to crinkle around his eyes, making him look almost carefree. “I was counting on it.”

He backed away, viewed her clothes on a nearby molded plastic chair and scooped them up.

“What do you think you're doing?” Mariah demanded.

“Keeping you from leaving the hospital until the doc springs you.”

Laughing at Mariah's heated string of curses, Trace left the emergency room to track down Ben Loftin.

The deputy, who'd been the first to respond to the DPS call, insisted that Mariah's accident was undoubtedly caused by a cowboy driving under the influence.

It sounded good, Trace allowed. But it was also too easy.

That deep-seated instinct he'd always trusted told him that someone had tried to kill Mariah, or at the very least, scare her back to California.

After instructing J.D. to go to the hospital and remain outside Mariah's room, just in case whoever it was who ran her off the road might try again, Trace got into the Suburban and headed out of town. To where the DPS had discovered the wrecked Jeep.

“Lady was damn lucky,” the trooper remarked as he and Trace watched the Cherokee being lifted onto the flatbed trailer of the tow truck. Trace had impounded the Jeep for testing.

“Lucky,” Trace murmured. He turned and looked back up at the edge of the cliff, where the Jeep had left the road. Then down into the canyon below. If she hadn't hit that huge red boulder head-on…

The driver's door had been cut away; the passenger door was badly caved in. As the tow-truck driver fastened the moorings, something captured Trace's attention.

He focused his flashlight on the passenger door. “Look at this.” The DPS officer turned his own beam on the spot. A streak of forest green paint marred the creased tomato red door.

“Looks like she was telling the truth about having been run off the road.”

Trace murmured an agreement and wondered if, just possibly, Mariah could also be right about Alan Fletcher.

Sometimes—hell, most of the time, Trace amended—the guy who looked the most guilty really was the bad guy.

Even if he was a U.S. senator.

Trace was on his way back to the hospital when Jill called to let him know that the DPS crime lab had finished with its analysis of the clothing J.D. had retrieved from Clint's hamper when he'd searched the rancher's house.

At the time, J.D. had tagged the chambray shirt because the stain on the front of it looked like dried blood. A suspicion the state chemist confirmed. He also confirmed that the thread J.D. had found on the carpet could have come from that same shirt. Which should have made Garvey look guilty as hell, Trace considered as he read through the report.

Except for one thing. The blood, which the chemist declared to be human, was not Laura Fletcher's. Nor was it Clint Garvey's.

The cowboy had a lot of explaining to do.

“Shit.” Trace scowled down at the report, irritated at
Garvey for interjecting this new twist into an already convoluted case. The fact that he was going to have to interrogate his prisoner again, when he'd rather be with Mariah, did nothing to improve Trace's already-rotten mood.

 

As soon as Mariah was unwillingly settled into her hospital room, she placed a call to the lodge.

“Maggie,” she said, when her mother answered the phone, “I need you to do me a big favor.”

“Of course, darling. Anything.”

“I'm in Payson at the hospital.”

“The hospital? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mariah said quickly, hearing the thready note of panic in her mother's voice. “I had a little accident and they were going to keep me until morning, just for observation, but that's not going to be necessary after all.

“Could you have Kevin drive you to the ranch and pick me up something to wear home?”

“Of course. But what happened to your clothes?”

“That's a long story.”

“Are you certain you're all right, darling?”

“Positive. And Maggie, there's one more thing I need you to do, if you wouldn't mind.”

Mariah knew that Trace would hit the roof if he suspected what she was about to do. Fortunately, Maggie had not a single qualm about such subterfuge.

“If I wouldn't mind?” Maggie asked after Mariah had explained her admittedly impulsive plan. “Sweetheart, I wouldn't miss this performance for the world.”

Step one accomplished, Mariah thought with satisfaction as she hung up the phone.

Her next step: getting out of this hospital so she could prove that Alan Fletcher murdered his wife.

F
ive hours after helping her daughter escape, Maggie McKenna was pacing the floor of her suite. It occurred to her that this just might be the greatest performance of her career.

“Dammit, Maggie,” Alan complained. “You have to stop crying long enough to tell me what you called me up here for.”

“You don't understand,” she wailed. On cue, tears streamed down her face.

“Dammit, Maggie,” he said again. Clearly frustrated, Alan thrust impatient fingers through his hair. “Take a deep breath.” He nodded as she drew in a ragged gulp of air. “That's a girl. Now another. Fine. Okay, now, why don't you start at the beginning?”

“I j-j-just got a call from the sheriff,” she managed. “You won't believe what he's going to do!”

Impatient, he grasped her shoulders. “Calm down.” He shook her. Hard. Maggie decided it was a good thing Kevin wasn't here. It was going to be hard enough explaining to the wonderfully protective young man how
she'd gotten the bruises Alan's rigid fingers would undoubtedly leave behind.

“He's threatening to d-d-dig her up,” Maggie said, her voice going higher and higher, like a soprano practicing her scales.

Alan blanched. “That's unthinkable. And totally unnecessary, since he's already got the murderer behind bars.”

“He said he was going to get a court order to exhume her body,” Maggie insisted. She splayed her hand across her silk-clad breast and took another deep breath designed to look like a valiant attempt to keep from spinning out of control. “I guess he doesn't believe Clint's guilty.”

“Of course Garvey's guilty,” Alan snapped. He released her and began to pace. “You need a lawyer to block the order.”

His voice was trembling. With anger? Maggie wondered. Or fear?

“I don't know any local attorneys.” The tears resumed anew. Hotter. Wetter.

“Call Matthew.”

“He's out of town.”

“Where?”

“How the hell do I know?” Her answer was half sob, half wail. “In case you haven't noticed, my former husband and I didn't exactly part on the best of terms. He doesn't keep me up to date as to his comings and goings.”

“Shit.” He raked his hand through his hair again. “All right, don't worry. I'll take care of things. Just try to stop crying, okay?”

He was good. But Maggie wasn't buying his act for a minute. To borrow one of her former husband's more vile expressions, Alan Fletcher was as slick as deer guts on a doorknob.

“But—”

“Callahan's just a small-town hick cop. We'll stop him.”

A hick cop? Maggie had to force down the urge to kick the son of a bitch in the knee. She liked Trace. A lot. She liked the idea of Trace and her younger daughter even better. “Why would he want to do this?”

“He's undoubtedly trying to bring the press back on the case. These guys are all the same. They can't resist showing up on the nightly news. It's like a narcotic, they get hooked and they keep needing a fix more and more often.”

It took a herculean effort to resist the urge to point out that his description sounded an awful lot like politics.

“The idea of exhuming my little girl's body is absolutely ghoulish.” Maggie shuddered.

“Don't worry. I'll get the order blocked.” He frowned. “What do you know about that evidence Mariah is claiming to have?”

“Evidence?” Maggie's still-damp emerald eyes were wide and innocent.

“She says she found something out at the house.”

“I don't know anything about any evidence.”

“We need to find out. It may be all we need to convince the court to refuse the order.”

“Mariah's at the hospital. She had an accident last night. She could have been killed.”

He actually looked surprised by the news, Maggie considered. Which was puzzling, considering that Mariah believed—and Maggie agreed—that he'd arranged for her “accident.”

“How is she?”

“The doctor says she'll be fine. But he wanted to keep her for observation. She's not allowed visitors,” she added.

“We'll see about that.” His expression was grim. And
determined. “Sit tight,” he informed her. “While I take care of things.”

“Thank you, Alan.” Maggie glanced over at the tall case clock in the corner and realized she needed to stall. She twisted her fingers together. “There's something else.”

Alan Fletcher looked as if he were about to implode. “Now what?”

“No matter what Matthew says about me, I'm not so stubborn that I can't admit when I've been wrong. I realize I've been hard on you, Alan.” Her eyes turned soft and earnest at the same time. “And I've totally overlooked the possibility that my daughter's murder turned your life upside down.”

She held out her hand. “I do hope you'll accept my apologies. And my gratitude for helping me with this horrible problem.”

He gave her a long hard look. Neither her expression, nor her hand, wavered. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he made his decision. “You're welcome.

“Christ,” he muttered as he left the suite, headed down the hall. “All the Swann women are just one goddamn problem after another.”

 

While Maggie was keeping Alan occupied in her suite, Mariah was on her way to Alan's room when a white-jacketed room service waiter carrying a tray containing a sterling silver coffeepot, two gilt-edged cups and a damask-covered wicker basket passed her. An aroma of fresh-baked muffins wafted from the basket. He smiled at her, his warm brown eyes revealing his appreciation for the white eyelet bustier and matching petticoat skirt Maggie had retrieved from her closet.

Damn.
She'd been hoping not to be noticed.

Offering a vague smile in return, she kept walking past
Alan's door, all too aware of the waiter as he stopped across the hall.

As soon as he'd disappeared into the room, Mariah pulled the coded card from the pocket of her skirt and slipped it into the lock. The light blinked green. She heard the click as the door opened.

Once inside, she went over to the desk and began going through his attaché case.

“There has to be a smoking gun.” Literally and figuratively. Actually, if you wanted to get technical, there were
two
guns missing. “So where the hell is it?”

An hour later, Mariah arrived back at the ranch in the Bronco she'd rented in Payson after leaving the hospital. She was frustrated and depressed. Although she'd searched through all of Alan's things, she could find not a single piece of evidence to link her brother-in-law to either her sister's murder or last night's attack on her.

Stunned, but on some level realizing she should have expected this, Mariah stood in the doorway, staring in at the destruction. Someone had trashed the house. And hadn't bothered to conceal the effort. Books had been pulled off shelves, drawers had been turned upside down onto the floor, art had been pulled off the wall.

Through her shock, she was vaguely aware of the sound of a truck approaching the ranch. Afraid it might be last night's assailant, returning to do the job right this time, she spun around. When she viewed the Suburban with the Mogollon County Seal on the side, Mariah almost wished she could take her chances with the would-be assassin.

Trace was out of the truck like a flash and strode furiously toward the house. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he bellowed.

“About what?”

“Don't play innocent with me, sweetheart. Not after what you tried to pull this morning.”

Distracted, it took him a minute to focus on the destruction just inside the door. “Aw, hell.” He pulled his service revolver from its holster. “Wait here,” he instructed in a voice as grim as his expression. “While I make sure the guy's gone.”

More than willing to leave the really dangerous stuff to the experts, Mariah didn't argue.

Moments later he was back. “Whoever it was didn't stick around,” he revealed.

“That's a relief.”

Mariah entered the living room. This was obviously Alan's work, she thought with a small measure of satisfaction. She and Maggie obviously had the man on the run.

“Are you going to dust the place again?”

“Wouldn't do much good. Since whoever it was wore gloves.”

“How can you tell that?”

He picked up a mirror that had been hanging over the sofa by the corner. Amazingly, the beveled glass hadn't broken, although the paper backing had been torn away. “See that smudge?”

She looked closer. “No fingerprint lines.”

“Very good. Obviously you're not as dumb as your recent behavior would indicate. I was beginning to wonder.”

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, and since lambent fury still gleamed in his wolflike eyes, Mariah didn't rise to the unflattering description.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked. “I can put a pot on—”

“I didn't come here for any goddamn coffee.”

“I see. I take it you did come here to yell at me.”

“I'm not yelling!” he exploded. His rugged face was
drawn with tumultuous, terrifying emotions. Emotions that surfaced as white-hot anger.

All the way up to the ranch, he'd been trying to decide whether to murder her himself, or drag her kicking and screaming back to Whiskey River, handcuff her to his bed and never let her go. Both tactics, he'd finally decided reluctantly, could be viewed as overkill.

“Sounds like yelling to me.”

“And if I
were
yelling, which I'm not, I'd say I have a pretty damn good reason.” Trace was overreacting and he knew it. But he couldn't forget how desperate he'd felt when he'd shown up at the hospital to find her missing.

Towering over her, Trace looked hard and dangerous. With his black Stetson and treacherous sidearm back in the leather holster on his hip, he reminded her of a gunslinger, yet Mariah refused to flinch under his blistering gaze. Having seen the gentle side of this man, she trusted him not to physically hurt her.

“Would you care to tell me exactly what I've done to make you this angry?”

“What you've done?” He looked at her with a mixture of fury and disbelief. “What you've done?” he repeated. “Let me count the ways.”

Watching the muscle jerk in his jaw, Mariah had a feeling he was not about to quote a verse from the
Sonnets from the Portuguese.

“First, you left the hospital when the doctor expressly told you he wanted you to remain for observation.”

She drew herself up straight. “There wasn't any need. I was fine.”

He let out an impatient breath. “Now you're a doctor?”

“No, but—”

“Don't tell me. You've played one on TV.”

“You don't have to be so sarcastic.”

“You left the hospital,” he repeated firmly. “Without even bothering to check out.”

“I was afraid Gert would feel duty-bound to notify the doctor.”

“How the hell did you get past J.D.?”

“Is that really important?”

“It is to me. And since he was called on the carpet for abandoning his post, it's also damn important to J.D.”

That was the only thing that had bothered her about the plan from the beginning. When Maggie had informed her that the deputy had been posted outside her door, Mariah had realized that she had no choice but to finesse the situation. She'd do it again, in a minute. But that didn't mean she didn't feel guilty for having endangered J.D.'s career advancement.

“Maggie helped,” she mumbled.

“Maggie? What does Maggie have to do with anything?”

“She brought me some clothes,” Mariah explained. “Then, later, after I was dressed, she pretended to get dizzy, so J.D. would go get her some water.”

“And that's when you made your escape.”

“I wouldn't exactly call it an escape.”

“What would you call it?”

He still couldn't deal with the idea that she could have been in danger again. And that he would have been helpless to protect her. He took hold of her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh, but he managed, somehow, not to shake her.

“Do you have any idea how it felt to come back to the hospital, only to discover you missing?” His hands moved roughly down her arms, squeezing hers until they ached. “Do you have even the slightest glimmer of an idea of what I was thinking?”

That, unfortunately, had never crossed her mind.
“When you put it that way, I suppose I have to admit that perhaps I did behave a little impulsively.”

Perhaps?
That had to be the understatement of the millennium. “That's just for starters. How about your criminal behavior?”

“If you're referring to me skipping out on my hospital bill—”

“I'm referring to you breaking into Alan Fletcher's hotel suite.”

How could he possibly know that, Mariah wondered. Deciding it wasn't important
how
he'd discovered her subterfuge, she did the only thing she could think to do. She tried to bluff her way through.

“Gracious, news travels fast.”

Trace controlled the wave of fury. “Next time you decide to search a guy's underwear drawer, perhaps you ought to take note of how he folds his socks.”

Damn Alan Fletcher anyway! Who would have suspected anyone could be so anal retentive as to notice a stupid thing like that. As it was, it had taken her twice as long as she'd expected to go through his things because he was so ridiculously neat.

Anger at her former brother-in-law created a flare of heat that had her tossing her head. “He called you.”

“As soon as he got back upstairs from Maggie's—who, it seems, has had nearly as busy a day as her meddling daughter—and discovered that someone had been rifling through his things.