Unspeakable (17 page)

"What does Carl Herbold's escape have to do with..." Corbett paused, wheezed. "With anything?"

Emory shot a rueful glance in Anna's direction. She'd gone pale, but if her expression was a fair indicator of her feelings, he'd slipped from being a tracker-in of dog shit to a Nazi death-camp guard.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Corbett. I thought you knew how... how folks feel about... all that. You're guilty by association. You know how people are, always looking for a scapegoat. I guess some feel that you're to blame for those boys' meanness. This incident with your cattle, well, I think that proves what people around here think of you. They forgot about it for a while, but this prison escape has got folks all stirred up again. It's all anybody is talking about."

"Excuse me, who're you?"

Emory spun around. He had been painting such a bleak picture, and doing such a damn good job of it, that he resented the rude interruption. He was also surprised by it. He had believed Anna and Delray Corbett to be alone on the ranch except for the kid, who, upon his arrival, had been banished to another room to play.

The man standing in the wide opening connecting the central hall to the living room was about six feet tall and lean to the point of being borderline skinny. He was dressed like a cowboy in faded blue jeans and boots. He was tapping a beat-up straw hat against his thigh. The hat had mashed down sand-colored hair, darkened a little by perspiration. The armholes of his chambray work shirt looked like they'd been chewed on by a rottweiler. His arms were all muscle and sinew and as brown as a pecan hull. It was hard to detect the color of his eyes because they were squinting, as though he were studying the focus of them very hard. And Emory was the focus. Emory resisted the impulse to squirm beneath that stare and instead demanded, "Who wants to know?" His retort didn't sound nearly as condescending spoken out loud as it had inside his head. In fact it sounded petulant and childish.

The cowboy laughed. "Let me guess. You're Lomax. Delray told me he was meeting with you this afternoon."

Emory was subjected to a slow once-over. When his eyes landed on the cell phone in Emory's hand, he chuckled again, then dismissed him and turned to Delray. "I need a part before I can repair the water pump. I've located what I need, but it's at a supply house in Nacogdoches. I'll probably be gone the rest of the afternoon."

Corbett nodded. "Fine."

The cowboy replaced his hat and, after throwing another ridiculing glance in Emory's direction, he went out.

"Who was that? Does he work for you?"

"Yeah."

"Since when?"

"I hired him a few days ago."

Emory saw an opportunity to distance himself further from the poisoning of the cattle. "Have you checked him out? Could he have poisoned your cows?"

"Lomax, I think we've said all that needs to be said. Lay your mind at rest about the loan. The bank is in no danger of losing its money. The collateral is worth a lot more than I borrowed." Emory put on his best smile. "Neither of us would have any worries if you accepted EastPark's offer."

Corbett's face turned redder. "Anna, please show him out."

"I would be derelict in my duties as a financial adviser if I didn't warn you that you're making a big mistake, Mr. Corbett."

"I'll consider myself dutifully warned. Good-bye, Lomax. Tell your pals at EDP—"

"EDP."

"Whatever. Tell them my ranch is not for sale. Don't bother me again." He left the room and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Emory cursed every step Corbett took until he disappeared at the landing. He turned to Anna. "He'll eventually change his mind." She shook her head no.

Tilting his head to one side, he smiled at her as he sauntered forward. "If it was your choice, what would you do?" On the emphasized word, he poked her lightly in the chest with his index finger.

Quickly she turned her back on him and made her way to the front door. He followed, but at the door he ignored that she was holding it open for him in a blatant invitation for him to leave. Not much headway had been made with the old man. Corbett was still unshakable. Something else must be tried.

It would be terribly risky to engage Jesse Garcia again. Garcia wouldn't have stayed in business this long if he were untrustworthy. Your fifty dollars bought you not only his services, but also his silence. But Garcia had never been caught, either. He usually contracted the job out to a needy transient relative who got paid a pittance for doing the actual deed while Garcia, safe at home with a dozen alibis, retained a huge commission for himself.

There was a first time for everything, however. One of his relatives might get sloppy. If he were caught, he would point the finger at Garcia, and Garcia struck Emory as a man who would rat out his own mother if it came down to freedom versus going to jail. Emory didn't want the distinction of being Jesse Garcia's first fuckup. He wouldn't be using the Mexican again. Nor did he know the strength of that bullshit about Carl Herbold. He hadn't even known that the escaped con and Corbett were connected until this morning, when his secretary reminded him of the appointment. Not that he had needed the reminder. He had been about to tell Mrs. Presley that when she'd added, "Poor old Delray. He'll never live down being those mean boys'

stepdaddy."

And for the next half hour she had provided Emory with all the juicy details about Cecil and Carl Herbold. He had pulled a sad face. He had furrowed his brow. Every once in a while he had murmured a "Jeez Louise," or a "Hmm-hmm-hmm. Rotten kids," when mentally he'd been rubbing his hands together and salivating. He had added the information to his arsenal of weapons to use against the obstinate rancher.

When he dropped the convict's name into his argument, it had seemed an ingenious ad-lib, another sockeroo to Delray's stubborn chin. But if Herbold was recaptured soon, that argument would no longer have punch, and he would be right back where he started, which was exactly nowhere.

The key to his success could be Anna Corbett.

He moved in closer. "Anna, you can read my lips, right?"

She nodded.

He smiled. "Good. Because I want you to understand how important this deal could be to your future. Think of what that money would mean to your son. If I were you," he said, placing his hand on her arm, "being a woman, and deaf, I'd want to secure a solid future for myself and my kid when I had the chance." He gave her arm a stroke.

"An opportunity like this might not come along again. I'm just glad I'm the one who can give it to you." He massaged her triceps. "Why don't you and I get together soon and talk about it?" Sometimes he was so smart he scared himself. Just as he guessed, the woman was starved for affection. He'd nailed it the first time he met her. Under that stiff exterior, she was mushy with the need for male attention. For young male attention. Her father-in-law wasn't enough for her. What an exciting prospect. Accustomed to stodgy ol' Delray, a young cock would probably make her go wild and crazy in bed.

At his touch, her haughtiness disappeared. Looking innocent and frightened, sweet and shy and sexy all at the same time, she tugged on her lower lip with her teeth. She glanced up the stairs like a teenager afraid of being caught by a vigilant parent. She lowered her eyelashes. When she tried to catch her breath, she shuddered delicately.

Then she pulled her arm free and, smiling up at him, signed something.

Emory leaned in closer. "I don't know what you said, but it looked mighty good to me." He pressed her arm once more and winked. "I'll be in touch."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

J
ack didn't return from his errand until after dark. Surprisingly, Delray and David were out on the front porch in spite of the heat. He had no intention of intruding. He was amazed that he was still employed.

Yesterday afternoon he had really overstepped his bounds. He had plunged headfirst into the turbulent waters of a moral conflict, ostensibly to save a drowning man who hadn't asked to be saved. Now, more than twenty-four hours later, he was still berating himself for asking Delray how long he had loved his daughter-in-law.

What the hell business was it of his? None. Except that Delray was upset because he and Anna had been alone together in the barn. And Delray suspected him of poisoning his herd of beef cattle. Jack supposed that gave him some license to speak his mind. Even so, it had been an inappropriate question and he had known that when he asked it.

Delray's reaction had been justifiably irate. He had turned his head so quickly that he'd inadvertently turned the steering wheel of his pickup too. It had swerved off the road and onto the shoulder. Delray had applied the brakes in time to keep them from plunging into the ditch, but inertia caused the truck to strain forward before rocking back and coming to a jarring stop. When Delray turned to Jack, the veins in his forehead were bulging with anger. "I don't know what gutter you crawled out of, but you and your dirty mind..." He had been breathing so hard, he'd had to pause to catch his breath. "Let me set you straight on one thing. I have never laid a hand on Anna. Nothing, nothing, improper has ever passed between her and me."

"I believe you," Jack told him. "I didn't ask you how long you'd been sleeping with her; I asked how long you'd loved her."

Delray had continued to glare at him for several moments, but Jack hadn't backed down. He had known he was right. Delray's reaction had rid him of all doubt that he was mistaken. Finally Delray slumped back in his seat and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets. He stayed that way for a full minute. Jack scarcely moved, hardly breathed. It was a long sixty seconds. When at last Delray lowered his hand, it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. It flopped lifelessly into his lap. He stared disconsolately through the windshield, looking old, defeated, and incredibly sad.

"Does she know?"

Delray shook his head. "No. No."

Jack had said nothing else, knowing he had said more than enough.

After a time Delray had steered the truck back onto the road and they returned to the ranch. It wouldn't have surprised Jack if Delray had ordered him then to pack and leave. He had two very good reasons to fire him.

But Delray hadn't mentioned dismissal then, or this morning when Jack reported to work. He was still employed this afternoon when he left to get the part for the broken pump. Apparently, he was still on the payroll.

But he certainly didn't expect an invitation to join the family tonight, so he hesitated even when David waved to him from the porch. He shouted, "Hey, Jack! Come here! We're making ice cream."

Couldn't hurt to stop and say hello, he thought. He stopped his truck and got out.

"Hi, Jack."

"Hey, David." As Jack climbed the porch steps he nodded at the antiquated machine. "I thought all ice cream freezers were electric these days. Didn't know they still made the wooden ones."

"They don't." Delray was sweating from the exertion, but he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. "We've got an electric one, but, I don't know, it just doesn't seem to taste as good as when you crank it yourself."

Delray was having to apply himself to turn the hand crank. David was sitting on top of the gear mechanism, a folded towel cushioning it for him. The freezer, a barrel made of vertical wooden slats, was standing in a plastic tub so the brine draining from a hole in the side of it wouldn't run into the flower beds at the edge of the porch.

"It freezes faster if I'm sitting on it," David told him.

"That's why you're such an important fellow around here."

The boy flashed his snaggle-toothed grin.

"Get the part?" Delray asked.

"Yeah, I'll start on that pump first thing tomorrow morning. Unless you want me to do it tonight."

"Hell no. Sit down."

Surprised by the invitation, he sat down on the top step.

"You're not s'posed to say hell, Grandpa."

"You're right, David, I'm not. Did you have some supper?" he asked Jack.

"I stopped for a burger."

"This should be ready in a few more minutes."

As though on cue, Anna came through the door carrying a tray of bowls, napkins, and spoons. Jack jumped up and relieved her of the tray, which seemed to fluster her. Or maybe she was flustered because she didn't have enough utensils for him and had to go back inside to get them. When she returned, Delray pronounced the ice cream ready.

David hopped down. The towel was removed. Jack watched with interest as the salty ice was scraped away from the metal canister and it was lifted out. Anna took the lid off and pulled out the dasher, the louvered gizmo that stirred the cream mixture while it was freezing. Then, using a long spoon, she served up the first bowl and passed it to Jack.

Taken aback, he accepted it with a murmured "Thanks." He waited until everyone else had been served before spooning his first bite. It was rich, cold, sweet, and redolent with vanilla. Delicious.

"Anna uses Mary's recipe, which came down through her family," Delray told him. "I bet it's the best homemade ice cream you ever ate."

"It's the only homemade ice cream I ever ate." He said it before he thought about it. He was hoping the admission would pass without notice, but Delray raised his head and looked at him. Jack shrugged. "My, uh, my folks weren't into things like making ice cream. How'd your meeting with Lomax go?"