Perfect Family (2 page)

Heath shrugged. “Lori? You knew she loved me when you married her. You were nothing but a stand-in, Harding.” He put his arm around Lori and went back inside the cabin. “Get your things, Lori.”

The indifference in his voice enraged Harding. He followed them inside, repositioning the rifle from the crook in his arm to both hands.

Heath ignored him, instead keeping his arm around Lori while his other hand clutched the briefcase.

Her eyes seemed to waver, but she said nothing to Harding. Instead, she did as Heath instructed. Harding felt his blood heat as she picked up a small suitcase and her pocketbook, staying close to Heath as she did so. Then they started for the door.

Harding barred it with his own body. “You won't take whatever is in that briefcase and you won't take her,” he said.

“Don't be a fool, Harding. She has never cared about you.”

Harding's gaze went to her. She was so beautiful. So passionate. So treacherous. Her blond hair curled around her shoulders. Her dark blue eyes were wide. Her sensuous lips frowned at him.

He could barely breathe now. His heart pounded so loud he was sure both of them could hear it. “Is that true, Lori?”

Say no. Please say no
.

“Don't be a fool, Harding,” she said. “And don't ask questions you really don't want the answers to.”

“Damn you,” he said. “Damn you to hell.” He levered his rifle at her.

Heath took a step toward her.

“Don't worry, Heath. He won't do anything.” Her voice was laced with contempt. “He doesn't have the balls.”

Harding felt as if he were suffocating in a dark noxious cloud. He took a step forward. His fingers instinctively tightened on the trigger, then stopped.

Heath reached out to grab the rifle. It went off, the sound resounding, echoing in the room. Harding's ears rung with it, even as his eyes tried to register what they were seeing. He barely realized that his brother was slowly, ever so slowly, sinking to the floor, crimson spreading over his shirt.

He leaned down next to his brother. “Heath …” he called. “I didn't mean … God help me … I didn't mean …”

Heath's lips were moving. Harding reached down to hear. “Bonds. Buried. Book. In … brief …” Then he groaned, and the color in his eyes faded.

Lori threw herself on Heath, then turned toward Harding in a fury. “You killed him. I'll see you dead. I'll see you electrocuted.”

Harding pulled her off Heath and pushed her away. Harder than he'd intended. She stumbled toward the hearth. Her head connected with the brick fireplace, and she crumbled to the floor. Blood trickled from a wound in her head.

He rose, looking at the carnage around him. His brain tried to comprehend it, but couldn't. God knew he'd thought about killing his brother. Lori, too. But when it came down to it, he'd hesitated. If Heath had not grabbed the gun …

But he had. And Lori …

God help him.

He dropped to the floor, sick. He'd killed them both. Cain. He was Cain. And damned forever.

His eyes went back to Lori. She was right. He
would
be convicted of murder. He would die in the electric chair. Or spend the rest of his life in prison. A cage. That would be even worse than death. He had always loved the freedom of a ranch, of riding, of camping, of hunting.

A cage for the rest of his life.

And explanations to his family. His parents. His sister. He buried his head in his arms.

No one knows I'm here
.

He leaned down and picked up the briefcase. He quickly looked inside. A package. And money. Not as much as the cattle sale would have brought, but enough to disappear.
Heath's traveling money. Heath's and Lori's
.

His eyes filled with tears. He had never cried before, at least not as long as he could remember. Not even when they heard about Hugh's death in France during the Normandy invasion.

No time for tears. No time for regret
.

He took the briefcase, looked one last time at the two bodies, then ran out the door, down the road to his car. He started the engine and stomped down on the gas pedal. Leaving a whirl of dust behind him, he bounced along the dirt trail until he reached the highway, then sped down the road toward New Mexico.

one

A
TLANTA
, G
EORGIA
, 1999

Apprehension prickled along Jessie Clayton's spine as she drove into the tree-lined driveway of her small brick house. The front curtain was closed.

She would have sworn she left it open. She always left the curtains opened for Ben, her big shaggy mutt of a dog who usually spent his days surveying the world outside. Or just waiting for her return.

No Ben at the window, either. He would have heard her car pulling into the driveway. He would be wriggling with excitement. Something was wrong.

She hurriedly left the car, keys in hand, and nearly ran to the door. She tried the doorknob and felt it turn.
Unlocked
.

She hesitated. She never forgot to lock the door.
Never
.

She seldom came home for lunch, either. Usually her bookstore, located near a university campus, was busy at lunchtime. But she and her partner, Sol, had recently found a student who was both knowledgeable and reliable to fill in, and she'd reveled in having an extra hour of freedom. A trip home for lunch and to take Ben for a walk on a lovely day was a luxury she'd planned to enjoy.

But now she froze. Someone had been inside her house. Someone who shouldn't have been.

Even more worrisome was the absence of a welcoming bark.

She hesitated.
Run
, she told herself.
Run. You've always done that so well
.

But she couldn't. Ben was inside. Ben, her only family. What if he was injured?

Call the police
. But whoever had been there was probably long gone. Her heart pounding, she pushed the door open. Then she saw a figure. Dressed in black with a ski mask covering his face. Tall. That's all she noticed before he sprinted toward the door, knocking her aside as he did so. Instinctively, she grabbed for him and caught cloth. He whirled around, one hand fending her off, the other smacking her face.

He was gone. She managed to get to her feet and started calling the dog. She heard a whine, ran to the bathroom and threw open the door. Ben was trying to get to his feet, his furry body wriggling with anxiety.

“What happened, Ben?”

He whined and seemed to have a problem walking. She hugged him for a long moment. He was infinitely dear, this nondescript furball she'd found abandoned. She didn't care if the burglar had taken everything she had as long as Ben was all right.

And he did seem to be all right. But she meant to keep a close watch on him the rest of the day.

Her face still smarting from the blow, Jessie looked around the room. The house—more of a cottage—had been ransacked. Her belongings were strewn around the room, one of her miniature carousel horses smashed, apparently when the burglar was searching for valuables. She'd painstakingly collected them over the past eight years and each was special. She leaned down and picked up the pieces of broken china. One of her favorites.

But no time to worry about that. She called the police and held a still-trembling Ben as she waited for them. She felt herself trembling. Her sense of safety had been smashed along with the china horse. And the books thrown over the floor. She wanted to gather them up, but she hesitated to do anything until the police arrived.

At least all but one of her carousel horses had survived. So had the flowering plants that gave the room a sense of warmth.
Think of your blessings
.

Jessie called Rob at the bookstore. “I'll be late. Just lock up if you have to go to class,” she told him, still too stunned to elaborate. Her voice sounded amazingly normal to her own ears.

She wandered outside and stood on the small porch. The tree-lined street of homes looked as peaceful as always. Located near Emory University, the homes were mostly brick two- and three-bedroom cottages built in the thirties and forties. She'd loved their storybook look and flower-filled yards; they seemed to have so much more character than the new subdivision homes.

The azaleas had faded, but nearly every house had a colorful year-round garden, including her own. She'd constructed her own garden, a haphazard profusion of lilies, begonias, and impatiens. She'd even planted a magnolia tree.

It was everything she'd ever pictured, ever wanted, as a child.

And now it had been violated. She turned around and went back inside, wincing at the destruction.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity before the doorbell rang—an impatient, authoritative ringing, not that of a casual caller. She tensed, and then wondered whether she would always brace herself whenever she heard a loud sound. She thought she'd moved beyond that fear.

She put a hand on Ben, reassuring him, when she was the one who really needed reassurance. When she looked out the window, Ben stayed at her side, his tail between his legs as if he'd condemned himself for failing as a watchdog.

Police
. She opened the door.

Jessie settled in her chair at the bookstore and opened the mail she'd grabbed from the mailbox as she left the cottage after a very unsatisfactory meeting with the police. She was still fuming.

For the first time, she didn't take pleasure in being alone in the bookstore that had become her second home. Rob
had
been gone when she arrived, and Sol was off on one of his research trips. She looked around the book-crammed shop, seeking the familiar sense of contentment. Every inch of shelf space was taken, and boxes full of additional books blocked much of the floor. Sol couldn't resist an estate sale, and usually she couldn't wait to open new crates and discover new treasures.

The Olde Book Shoppe specialized in rare books, and it smelled of leather and old paper and mustiness; even the latter usually gave her pleasure. It denoted substance. Stability. Books whose appeal lasted throughout decades, even centuries. She was seldom lonely here. These were the books of her childhood and youth and adulthood. They were closer to her than any human being had been.

But their comforting presence didn't help today. She reached down and touched Ben. He seemed to have shaken whatever had happened—or been given—to him. His tail wagged at last, and she felt better. A little.

She went back to the mail. Bills. Catalogs. Credit card offers.

Then she opened the odd-looking envelope that had been stuck in a catalog. It
looked
personal, but then she had previously received advertisements or pleas for money in deceptively benign packaging.

Her grumpy mood made her rush to that conclusion, and she held it for a minute or so before opening it.

Ben nudged her, as if aware her attention had wandered away from him. She reached down and touched him, and he settled under her feet again, happy with just that small touch.

She opened it, read the invitation, then reread the address on the envelope again.
Jessica Clayton
. Her name. Her address. It was obviously some kind of ironic mistake.

An invitation to a family reunion
.

A family she'd never heard of
.

She didn't need this today. She didn't need reminders that she had no family. Not even a distant cousin.

Even the words
family reunion
summoned up images. Warm, wonderful pictures of everything she'd once dreamed about. So many childish dreams. Whenever her father had stumbled into their rented quarters, smelling of whiskey or beer or cheap wine, she would close her eyes and wish for a mother, a sister, a doting grandfather. She would wish for the type of family she'd seen in television series or read about in books.

Her fingers stroked the envelope. No return address, but many invitations didn't have return addresses. And there was no phone number inside. It was an informal invitation, obviously computer-generated, with horses galloping across the top. There was no R.S.V.P.

It was, in fact, an announcement more than an invitation, obviously sent to people who knew the phone number, the address, the sender. She couldn't even tell the mail carrier to return it to the sender. The rightful recipient would never receive it.

As someone who had never received such an invitation, she felt regret for that unknown person, that person with her name. But probably she would be notified by another member of the family. Close families kept in touch. At least, she'd always thought so. Her imaginary family had.

For a moment, she let herself believe it was for her. She slowly released a breath, just realizing that she'd bottled it up in her throat. Her fingers had dropped the invitation and were stiff with tension. Or was it memories? Memories she'd tried to erase. But all of them had returned today. Fear had returned, and so had the insecurity.

Her family had never been more than a father. A father who was distant at best, an angry drunk at worst. This card was a mocking reminder.

She saw him now in her mind's eye. His defeated eyes. His blustering defiance when he was fired once again for drinking, his absences when she had to try to find something to eat in empty cabinets, the smell of alcohol when he returned late at night, mumbling words she didn't understand.

Still, she had loved her father. He was older than most fathers, having married late in life. Her mother had been a waitress, far younger than him. She had left them when Jessie was only two, and neither of them had ever heard from her again. Jessie had never tried to find her, but instead had steeled herself emotionally from the realization of being unwanted by one of the two people who should have loved her most, and being considered a … burden by the other. She never knew whether her mother's desertion had turned her father into the embittered man she knew, but sometimes she had seen grief, even longing, in his eyes. And each time he got that look on his face, he would disappear for a day or two or even three.