Convictions (30 page)

"Yeah. They wanted to talk to your dad but ended up with me. They said they're taking over the case."

Olivia nodded. "They'll probably want to question all the men again. Cooperate with them. If anything comes up, let me know."

Buck stared at her a moment, then shook his head as if he was dazed. "Uh, yes, ma'am. So you'll be filling in for your dad?"

Olivia ignored the thumping of her headache and the sliver of hysteria that lodged itself in her chest. "That's the plan. Anything else?"

Buck shuffled his big, booted feet. "I assigned someone to each of the prisoners, to work with them and keep an eye on 'em. Do you want me to do the same to Elliott?"

Hank's jaw clenched, and his lips flattened with anger. Although Olivia hated to do it, she couldn't afford to show favoritism. "That's a good idea."

Hank remained silent, but his taut body language spoke eloquently. He believed she didn't trust him, but she didn't dare reassure him. Not in front of Buck. Besides, was she one hundred percent certain he was innocent of all three murders? When she heard Mantle was dead, Hank had been the first person to come to mind. Yet hadn't Hank been the one she wanted at the hospital with her, too?

She didn't have time to sort out her emotions now. Her father was in the hospital, and she needed to get back to him. "What about tonight?" she asked Buck. "Will they be guarded then?"

"I'll make sure they are," Buck replied.

"Thank you. Go round up the men and let them know what's going on," Olivia said. She glanced at Hank. "Mr. Elliott will join you shortly."

Buck's gaze darted between her and Hank, then he nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

They followed Buck into the main part of the bunkhouse but remained there while the foreman went out to gather the hired men. Olivia turned to Hank, who stood stiffly, his arms crossed and his jaw tight.

"It's for your protection, too," Olivia said without preamble.

"Right." Hank's tone implied the opposite.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. "What if another body is found? You'll have a built-in alibi."

"You don't trust me."

Olivia blinked at his bluntness. She met his eyes but couldn't hold his gaze. "I trust you."

"Bullshit. You think I killed Mantle."

As much as she didn't want to believe he did, an insistent little voice of doubt nagged at her. "Did you?"

Fury darkened Hank's expression, and Olivia instinctively took a step backward, away from his wrath. His anger evaporated, replaced by disappointment.

"You've never been scared of me before, Olivia. Why now? Do you really believe I could kill someone?"

She studied the almost desperate look in his eyes, wishing she could give him the unconditional trust he wanted. But her background as an ADA and the attack that had stolen a vital part of her wouldn't let her believe him without reservation. "I believe people can get carried away and do something they regret seconds after they did it. It doesn't make him or her a cold-blooded killer, but it does make that person a murderer."

Frustration and helplessness sharpened Hank's features, and he took a step toward her. Although Olivia's heart threatened to escape her chest, she held her ground and tipped her head back to hold his fierce gaze.

He raised his widespread hands and placed them on either side of her throat. Here, alone in the bunkhouse, she knew how easy it would be for him to snap her neck, but just like her nightmare, she was frozen in place.

His eyes held her captive as his fingers caressed the exposed skin above her collar. He leaned impossibly closer until they shared the same air. "How does it feel to place your life in someone's hands, Olivia?"

His fingers tightened perceptibly around her neck, and she gasped. Then, just as quickly, he released her until only his fingertips brushed her neck. "What about your heart— has anyone ever held your heart in his hands?" He bent down and kissed her throat with light, butterfly touches.

Olivia shivered, but this time it wasn't fear. Dear God, it was arousal... swamping her senses and bringing tingling awareness to her most private places. Without thought, she wrapped her arms around Hank's neck and pressed herself against his rock-hard body. She moaned as he continued to kiss an imaginary line up her throat, beneath her jaw, over to her chin, and finally...

She opened her mouth to his without hesitation, and their tongues mated in a frenetic dance of desire. Olivia's thoughts lost coherency, and all she could feel was want... need.

Hank suddenly drew back, and Olivia tried to follow, to continue the soul-searing kisses.

"No," he said hoarsely.

Thwarted, she stared at him until rational thought replaced the erotic images that he'd fanned to life. "Why?" she asked, unable to articulate any further.

"Because I wanted you to know how
I
feel." Then he spun on his heel and strode out of the bunkhouse.

Olivia stared after him as her hand went to her throat. He'd held both her life and her heart in his hands. Then he'd given them back to her.

Could she promise to do the same?

Chapter Twenty-one

Right after Buck's meeting with the men, Hank watched Olivia place an overnight bag in her father's vehicle. She'd changed into black jeans and a green blouse, which would've looked plain on another woman, but not Olivia. Even with her limp, her steps were firm and her face resolute. He could almost see the crystalline blue of her eyes.

She looked around the sunlit yard, and their gazes met momentarily. Hell, what'd he expect? His fool stunt could've set back her recovery by weeks. Or she could've had him arrested for assault. Or both. So why did he do it?

Because he wanted her to know how helpless he felt. Because he wanted her to know that trust went both ways. Because he wanted her.

Christ, he was pathetic—a convicted felon who'd fallen for the judge's daughter who just happened to be a big-city assistant district attorney. It sounded like a fucking fairy tale. Only fairy tales were for children, not for a man who'd spent six years in the pen. And who'd probably end up back there for the rest of his sorry life.

The stallion neighed from the corral, and Hank watched it trot around inside the pen. The horse stopped and stared toward the mountains. Then he tossed his mane and continued to follow the same route around and around.

If Hank was convicted of murder, he'd become like the stallion—caught in a cage with no prospect of ever leaving it, with freedom just beyond his bars. Fear squeezed Hank's heart, and he fought the pressure growing in his chest.

Olivia drove away, giving him something else to focus on. He watched until even the plumes of dust disappeared.

"Did you see the judge at the hospital?"

Hank turned to see Barton standing beside him, and he answered irritably, "Yeah, I saw him."

"How was he?"

"Alive."

Barton frowned. "Think he'll be all right?"

Hank shrugged, hiding his concern behind a bland mask. "You heard what Buck said."

Barton kicked a corral post. "I hear that the Feds are taking over Mantle's case."

"You worried?"

Barton glanced up sharply. "Should I be?"

"Depends. Did you have anything to do with his murder?"

"Hell no. Not that I didn't wish him dead more than once, but I didn't kill him." His face reddened. "Besides, if I need an alibi, I have one."

Surprised, Hank studied the younger man, and comprehension flooded through him. "You son of a—" He grabbed Barton's shirtfront and shoved his face close. "You were with my sister."

Barton's cheeks turned bright red. "We didn't do anything."

Fury surged through Hank's blood, and the urge to throttle Barton with his fists nearly overcame his self-preservation.

"Something going on here I should know about?" Buck asked in an overly casual voice.

Hank stared at Barton for a moment longer, then released him, shoving him back. "Nope. Nothing."

Buck narrowed his eyes and turned his attention to Barton. "You got anything to say?"

The youngest convict shook his head as he smoothed his shirt. "Like he said, it was nothing."

Buck gave them each a critical once-over and stopped on Hank. "You'd best watch yourself, Elliott. If Barton turns up dead next, there isn't going to be any doubt who's been doing the killing."

Hank's gut twisted painfully, but he kept his expression blank. However, he couldn't prevent his sarcasm. "So you actually have some doubts?"

Buck narrowed his eyes. "Don't push it, Elliott, or I'll have you cooling your heels in the old root cellar."

Hank lifted his head and held Buck's stare. Finally the foreman grunted and strode away, allowing Hank to gulp in air. He became aware of Barton still standing nearby.

"Dawn says you didn't do it," Barton said.

Shock rippled through Hank, and he met Barton's eyes. "She said that?"

"Yeah." He smiled slightly. "More than once."

"Do you have any idea who killed him?" Hank asked to cover the emotion threatening to clog his throat.

"No. Me and Dawn were in the hay shed and didn't see or hear anything."

Hank's temper rose again as he pictured his baby sister alone with the felon in the middle of the night. "She's my sister, Barton." Resentment made it come out in a growl.

"I know, and that's why I'm telling you. I swear, we were only talking."

Although he still didn't appreciate Barton hanging around his sister, the kid had been honest about it. At least, Hank hoped he was. He curbed his animosity and nodded reluctantly. "If you really care for her, you'll stop seeing her. She deserves better than an ex-con."

"Don't you think that's up to her?"

Knowing Barton was right but not liking it, Hank didn't reply. He and the younger prisoner remained on the fringes of the milling men, but Hank noticed two of the hired hands standing nearby. They tried to act nonchalant, but Hank recognized them for what they were: his and Barton's guards. He wondered if Barton, Reger, or Lopez noticed their babysitters.

Olivia was right. If there was another murder, he and the other three convicts would have alibis. He looked around, studying each man and trying to determine who might have done the killings. He didn't trust Reger or Lopez enough to rule them out, although his gut told him neither committed the crimes. It had to be someone who'd lived in the area for at least the last eight years.

His gaze found Buck amid a small group of hired men. The foreman had worked for the judge for years. He was in a position where he could come and go as he pleased. Some of the hired men were long-timers, too—he'd heard them talk. Determining which ones had worked here the longest was something he could do. From there, he might be able to narrow the list of suspects.

He spotted Ted measuring a mare for shoes. Since the farrier had worked around the area for quite a while, he might have some information Hank could use. It was a good place to start.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Olivia smothered a yawn as she poured herself a second cup of coffee. She was glad Connie was back, otherwise Olivia would be in the dining hall. Of course, that would give her something to do instead of thinking about Warden Vincent's impending visit or her father, who was having more tests run this morning.

Or Hank's brief display of power yesterday. He'd said he wanted her to experience the helplessness he felt. For a split second with his fingers wrapped around her throat she had, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. However, his kiss had shown her a different form of vulnerability, one that was infinitely more dangerous to her heart.

She couldn't afford to think about him and her reeling emotions. Her father was her paramount concern now.

After she'd left him in the hospital last night, she'd driven home in the absolute darkness. The drive, as well as the day's events, had left her jittery and unable to relax when she'd arrived home after ten. Thinking about Mantle's murder and the fact that the killer was out there hadn't done anything to calm her, either. She'd parked as close to the house as she could and dashed inside. Immediately locking the door behind her, Olivia had retrieved her father's revolver, then went to check on Dawn. The girl had been asleep in her bed, bringing Olivia a wash of relief. She'd kept the gun on her nightstand while sleeping and had placed it back in its case this morning.

A knock on the door startled her, and she shot a glance at the clock—only seven thirty. Warden Vincent wasn't supposed to arrive for two more hours.

Taking a deep breath, she limped to the door and peeked past the curtained window. Two men dressed in suits stood on the porch. She recognized the ill fit of their coats due to the slight bulge beneath each one's arm. It appeared the FBI was getting an early start today.

She opened the door. "Yes?"

The two men flipped open their badges in unison, as if they'd choreographed for hours. The tall, thin man spoke. "I'm Special Agent Thornton, and this is Special Agent Bush. We're with the FBI."

Olivia studied their badges, then looked back at them, comparing their pictures with their faces. Satisfied, she asked, "What can I do for you gentleman?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions, Ms. Kincaid," Special Agent Bush, the short, stocky one said, his manner polite but brusque.

"Ask away."

Laurel and Hardy—minus the slapstick—exchanged surprised looks.

"It might be better if we do this in a private place," Thornton said.

Olivia wanted to refuse them entry, but she had no legitimate reason. She stepped back reluctantly and motioned them inside. Leading them into the kitchen, she asked, "Would you like some coffee?"

Both agents said yes, and Olivia carried steaming cups to the breakfast nook where they sat. Each man laid out an open notebook and poised with identical pens in hand. She had, on more than one occasion, worked with the FBI in Chicago. She used to think the DA's office was the epitome of bureaucratic idiocy, but the FBI's tangled red tape made theirs look like child's play.

As she waited for them to begin the inquisition, her palms dampened with sweat. She resisted the urge to wipe them across her jeans and sat down. She'd done nothing even remotely criminal.