She’s Gone Country (17 page)

Chunks of ice freeze my blood. I can’t move again. I can barely speak. “I don’t have a safe room,” I whisper.

“Go to a room that locks. Your bedroom. Your bathroom. Sit on the floor and stay there.”

She stays on the phone with me until the first sheriff squad car arrives. I think she’ll hang up then, but she remains on the line as the deputies search the ranch house, going from room to room and inspecting every closet and possible hiding place. Periodically she asks me questions about the house that the sheriff deputies are wanting to know. Are there any hidden closets, secret entrances, unsecured storage areas? No, no, and no. It’s a seventy-year-old house. What you see is what you get.

But finally they’re done, and the female dispatcher lets me know that the officers want me to unlock the door to my bedroom. I rise from the floor, my legs still shaky, and unlock the bedroom door.

Turns out they found no one. Whoever broke in left before he could be apprehended. The sheriff deputy who interviews me and fills out the paperwork speculates that the patrol car sirens must have scared off the intruder. Unfortunately, the house is no longer habitable. The kitchen door’s been kicked in—the point of forced entry—and the living room has been ransacked. The kitchen is nearly as bad, with the refrigerator door left open and glass and Tupperware smashed and scattered across the floor.

After the deputy establishes a timeline, he accompanies me around the house, asking me to identify what’s missing. The living room is in such a state of chaos that I can’t even begin to figure out what’s missing. We don’t have valuables here other than the big TV, the boys’ laptops—which they took with them to New York—and their various electronics. I’ve never been a jewelry person, and I have no cash stashed anywhere. However, my purse is missing from the kitchen, and that’s scary because in it were my all my credit cards, ID, keys, and cell phone. Essentially my lifeline to the world. Replacing all of that will be a hassle and incredibly time-consuming.

But I’m not hurt. Just scared, just inconvenienced.

In the kitchen, I step over an upended lime Jell-O salad with its lonely bits of pineapple and the remnants of the pumpkin pie and walk the deputies to the front door.

Having finished dusting for fingerprints and documenting the crime scene, they’re ready to go. They ask if there is anywhere they can take me. Someplace they can drop me off. I can’t think of anyplace I could go, not at two-fifty in the morning the day after Thanksgiving.

“You might want to go to a hotel,” the younger deputy urges me as he heads to the door. “It’s not exactly safe to stay here.”

I must be in shock, because I insist I’ll be fine. I watch the four men pile back into the two cars and then head off down my driveway. It’s not until the red taillights fade into the night that I’m hit by the reality of my situation.

My kitchen door is gone. I have no truck keys. No money. No ID.

What if the intruder comes back?

What if he’s never left?

What if there’s still something here he wants?

The nausea returns, even stronger than before, and I sit down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.

I should have gone with them. Should have let them drop me at a motel. Why didn’t I say yes? What was I thinking?

And then the thought comes unbidden.

Call Dane
.

Cooper’s phone has Dane’s number saved as a contact. In fact, he’s number 6 on Coop’s speed dial, and I press the number.

My teeth chatter as the phone rings. I know it’s three in the morning. I know it’s Thanksgiving night. But Dane has to answer.

And then he does, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Hello?”

“Dane, it’s Shey. Someone broke into the house tonight. The sheriff just left, but the door’s smashed in and my purse has been stolen and Brick’s gone—”

“Where are the kids?”

“In New York.”

“You’re alone?”

“Yes—” My voice breaks.

“I’m on the way.”

Dane arrives in about fifteen minutes, which is damn near impossible from his property. But even fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re scared out of your mind and jumping at every sound.

I almost cry as I spot his truck headlights shine through the night, cutting the darkness, and I’m outside, shivering on the front steps, as he pulls in front of the house.

I’m suddenly excruciatingly emotional as he swings open his door and steps to the ground. He looks me up and down as he approaches the steps. “You okay?”

I just nod, tears not far off.

“You don’t know who it was?”

I shake my head.

“They dusted for fingerprints?”

I nod again.

Dane now looks past me, his gaze sweeping the house. “How’d he get in?”

“Kitchen.”

“How did he get out?”

“Bo’s bedroom window.” My teeth are chattering. “Window’s open and the screen’s been cut.”

Dane heads for the kitchen then, walking along the front of the house to the back door. He knows the house well. Growing up, Dane spent as much time in our house as he did in his own.

The kitchen door hangs from its hinges. It was never a big, heavy door in the first place, and decades of cold winters and scorching summers have weathered it to its brittle state. Even I can see it wouldn’t have taken that much effort to break down the old door.

Dane doesn’t even bother to hide his disgust. “Brick should have replaced this door years ago.”

“Don’t blame Brick. It’s not his fault—”

“Maybe not, but someone should have taken better care of you.” He jabs his cane into the floor, and the words come out in a hiss. “You could have been hurt—”

“I know!” I don’t know why I’m shouting at him, because I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at me. I should have gone with the police, gone to a motel, done anything but called Dane. Turning to Dane is not the answer, never has been the answer. But I do it anyway. “I hope I didn’t wake up Lulu.”

“Shut up. Get your things. You’re coming home with me.”

“And Lulu?”

“God, Shey, you’re a pain in the ass. Lulu’s in Houston for the weekend, okay?”

W
e arrive at his estate twenty-five minutes later, parking in front of the hulking house built from creamy Texas stone, the front facade marked with long shady porches and thick wood support columns. “This place always takes my breath away,” I tell him.

Dane shifts into park and turns off the engine. “Biggest mistake of my life.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Two years designing it, one year to build it, endless arguments over the stone for the kitchen floor, the color stain on the living room beams, the right material for the fireplace. For what? None of it helped Matthew. It certainly didn’t improve my marriage.”

“Was it supposed to?”

“Good question.” He’s come around to open my door, and I slide out of the truck.

“The house was for Shellie Ann,” he adds. “The pool was for Matthew. I just wanted everybody happy.” He closes the door behind me and gestures to the front porch. “It’s late. I’ll show you your room.”

I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep in Dane’s guest room at the opposite end of the upstairs from his room, but the queen-size bed has an amazing mattress and the softest sheets. I fall asleep almost immediately and wake up hours later to a dark, quiet house. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then, when I do, I snuggle deeper into the bed’s warmth. For another few minutes I doze, trying to fall back asleep, but memories of the break-in return.

I shouldn’t have called Dane. Shouldn’t have turned to him just because I was scared.

A knock sounds on the door. “Shey, you awake?”

“Yes. Come in.”

But Dane doesn’t open the door, just talks through it. “I talked to Brick earlier. He wants you to call him.”

This is news, as he and Brick don’t talk. I slide out of bed and open the door. “He called you?”

“I called him.” Dane’s voice is flat, no-nonsense, making it clear that he didn’t want to call Brick but didn’t have an option. “He wanted to head back this morning and clean up things, but I told him we were handling it and that everything would be fixed by the time he arrived so there was no point in cutting his trip to see Carolyn short.”

“I’ll call him right now,” I promise.

Dane nods and turns away. He’s wearing work jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved thermal shirt the color of oatmeal, and as good as he looked from the front—the Henley-style shirt plays up his jaw and thick hair—he looks even better from the back.

“Stop staring and call your brother,” Dane snaps over his shoulder as he heads toward the stairs.

“Can’t help it,” I answer. “You’re still smokin’ for an old guy.”

He pauses at the top of the stairs to give me a reproving look.

I just smile, feeling a bit of the young, rebellious Shey rise up in me. He’s hot, seriously hot, and maybe he’s Lulu’s, but I can still enjoy looking at him.

Dane isn’t having any of it, though. “When are you going to grow up, Shey Lynne?”

“When are you going to get ugly?”

“Be careful, Shey.”

“Why?” I flash, butterflies flitting wildly inside me. I love it when he’s all tough and macho. Love the energy, crave the sexual tension. I never had this with John. We had companionship, friendship, comfort, but never this fierce, raw desire. And I like feeling this way. It makes me feel young and alive.

“Just saying, be careful. Don’t start something you can’t handle.”

A shiver races through me. My eyebrows lift. “That
I
can’t handle?”

“Just saying.” He holds my gaze a moment and then disappears down the stairs.

I stand there after he’s gone, feeling a delicious naughtiness that is so unlike me. These days I’m more maternal than sexual, yet the sexual part is pretty dang fun.

Returning to the bedroom, I replay the conversation, wondering if he really said what I think he said. Don’t start something that I can’t handle.

Interesting. And what exactly did he mean by that?

Still keyed up, I open the blinds at the window and am greeted by blue sky and wan November sunshine. From the upstairs windows, I get a glimpse of a shimmering dark blue pool surrounded by pale limestone pavers and shaded by two mature oaks that have been gracefully pruned.

This is a beautiful place. A dream estate. I could be so happy here.

I pull up an armchair to the window, then curl my legs under me and call Brick on Cooper’s cell phone.

“Coop?” Brick answers immediately.

“No, it’s Shey. I’m using Cooper’s phone. Mine was in my purse and it was taken.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes.”

“Scared?”

“I was last night, but I’m good today.”

He hesitates. “Dane said the guy got in through the kitchen door.”

“Kicked it in. Made a mess of the door and frame.”

“I should have replaced that door years ago. It’s never been strong. Don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Because it’s not your house, and you’ve been raising two kids and working a big ranch without a lot of help.”

“You could have been hurt—”

“But I wasn’t.”

“Glad you called Dane.” He hesitates, his voice dropping and deepening. “Guess I owe him one.”

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t owe him anything, and he doesn’t owe you. And I do wish you guys would end this ridiculous feud. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Yes, it is, especially since Dane has been there for you—”

“Here for me? I’m the one who is always there for him. On the circuit. At the hospital. During rehab. When Matt was born and again when he died—”

“Because that’s what friends do!”

“You haven’t even been there twelve hours and Kelly’s already got you brainwashed.”

“Aw, Brick, is this really you saying all this? Because it’s not the Brick I know. The Brick I know would give the shirt off his back for a stranger—”

“I’ll be back tonight. Tell Dane thanks for everything—”

“No. Don’t come back tonight. I don’t need or want your help. I’m an adult. I’ve run a successful business, and I can manage to get the door fixed on the house I’m living in.” And then I hang up on the big brother I’ve always adored.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m stepping out of the shower when Blue calls me on Cooper’s phone. I wrap the towel tightly around my chest and pick up, knowing that Brick and Blue have just talked.

“Shey, it’s Blue.”

“I know,” I answer tartly, hitching my towel higher and sitting back against the bathroom counter. “Coop’s phone has caller ID.”

“Why are you mad at me?” he asks, mildly surprised.

“Why do you think?”

“You women love your guessing games.”

“So you haven’t just talked to Brick.”

“Lord.”

“And he didn’t just tell you I was staying at Dane’s? And you haven’t called to say you’re on the way to pick me up?”

Blue is silent. And then he chuckles. “Mama said you didn’t need saving.”

“No, I don’t. Not from you or Brick. Because I’ve had it with both of you.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is. And here’s another one, Blue Callen. Dane’s not the bad guy. He did nothing wrong by trying to help Cody, and I’m sick and tired of you and Brick turning Dane into the enemy. You two should be ashamed of yourselves. You’ve both got wives and kids and busy family lives. Dane has no one but us. We were like his family.”

“Okay, sugar, got your point, now reel it back in.”

“No.” I’m even more angry now than when he first called. “I’m not going to reel it in. I don’t need you making decisions for me. And I don’t need you and Brick talking about me like gossipy old ladies with nothing else to do.”

“Gossipy old ladies?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t worry, sugar. You won’t hear from this gossipy old lady for a while.”

And then he hangs up.

I look down at the phone in my hand and exhale. This day isn’t going well at all.

It’s a clear but cold late November morning, so I dress in my favorite old jeans, boots, and a black long-sleeved turtleneck before heading downstairs to find Dane. I track him down in the kitchen, where he’s pouring a cup of coffee.

“Got enough for me?” I ask, perching on one of the black wrought-iron stools at the counter.

“It is for you,” he answers, sliding the cup my way.

“Thanks.”

“I talked to the sheriff’s department just a little bit ago. You didn’t tell me that the guy got your purse, too.”

“I did.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of calls to make. Cancel those cards, get new ID.”

“You can be just as bossy as my brothers.”

“Just looking out for you.”

“I appreciate that. And just so you know, I made most of those calls I needed to make before coming downstairs. I froze my checking account. Closed one of my credit cards. I think I have a handle on everything.”

“That’s good.”

My lips curve at his tone. He’s definitely in a prickly mood, but I don’t press because I’m curious about his house. I glance around, wondering if I can spot Lulu here. But the house is surprisingly impersonal. The architecture and interior are handsome, the furniture well appointed, the artwork expensive, but it feels cool, almost sterile, without plants or knickknacks or framed photos.

“I take it you don’t like clutter,” I say, noting that the granite kitchen counters are clear, the mantel in the adjacent great room is empty, the low trestle-style coffee table is clean. I’m reminded of a house that’s been staged to sell, and it makes me sad. Dane isn’t a money guy. He’s never cared about personal possessions. Yet this house smacks of money and lacks love.

My hands circle the mug. “I thought you’d have pictures of Matthew somewhere.”

I’ve caught him off guard. As he stiffens, I see such grief in his face that I wish I hadn’t mentioned Matthew.

“I’ve put them in my study. They make Lulu uncomfortable.”

My eyes sting and I blink hard. Screw Lulu. I dislike her even more now.

“Can you show me? I’d love to see pictures of him.”

Dane nods and heads for his study. I pick up my mug and follow.

Dane’s study is a small paneled room at the back of the house. Framed photos of bulls hang on the wall, but there are no trophies, award saddles, or buckles on the bookcase. But on his desk are a cluster of photographs, and Dane lifts one, hands it to me. It’s Dane holding a newborn baby wrapped in a hospital blanket. Oxygen tubes are taped to the infant’s nose, but it’s Dane’s eyes in the picture that hold me rapt. I look at the wonder in his eyes. Look at the love.

“He was just a little guy,” I say, voice husky with tears I won’t cry.

“Not quite five pounds.” Dane hands me another framed picture, this of a towheaded toddler propped up on a couch, surrounded by stuffed cows. “Matt loved cows,” Dane adds with a smile. “I think he said ‘moo’ before ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada.’ ”

Dane is breaking my heart right now.

“Definitely your boy,” I say, swapping photos with Dane as he hands me a third. Matthew’s in a small wheelchair in this one, his head slumped to the right. But he’s laughing and his eyes are a brilliant blue green and his baby teeth are white and straight and he’s full of joy. Full of Kelly charm and charisma.

“Your mother must have doted on him,” I say, aware that as an only child, Dane got lots of attention from his mother but not the right kind from his father. Dane’s dad was a hard man, sometimes too hard. Growing up, Dane had it rough.

“She did. She’d do anything for him, and Mattie knew it. My mom was probably his favorite person. Mom could always soothe him, even when he wasn’t feeling well. She spent hours in the rocker, just holding him, singing to him—” He breaks off, takes a quick breath. “I’ve always believed that cancer killed her because Mattie was gone. If Matthew had lived, Mom could have fought the disease. But without Matthew, she didn’t want to fight.”

“What year did she die?”

“In 1999. Just before I won my third and final championship.”

I can see he welcomes the change of subject. “She might not have been at the finals, but she knew you won. She was always so proud of you.”

“My mom was a good woman,” he agrees, taking the third photo from me and placing them all back on his desk so that they face his chair.

I follow him to the door, glancing at the eight framed bull photos lining the wall. “I take it these are your stars?”

He nods, turning out the light. “They’re all rank bulls, and the basis of my breeding program. Each one has competed in the nationals, and Dark Angel there is my three-time Bull of the Year.”

“Was it hard to switch from riding to breeding?”

“I’m a fourth-generation cattleman, breeding’s in the blood. What’s been a challenge is getting the PBR to protect the bulls as much as the riders. A good bull is upwards of fifty thousand dollars—Dark Angel was my first hundred-thousand-dollar bull—and they’re as important to the event as the rider,” he answers, closing the study door and continuing down the hall.

We return to the kitchen, where Dane offers to scramble me some eggs. I answer that I’d be just as happy with toast. Then, with toast and a refill on coffee, I head outside with him to start the day.

The poplars lining Dane’s drive are nearly all bare now. Piles of yellow-and-brown leaves pillow the ground and crunch beneath my boots as I walk. I can’t resist kicking one pile as I climb into his black truck and giggle as I send leaves flying.