A Home in Hill Country (Harlequin Heartwarming) (17 page)

Maybe Ryan hadn’t fought hard enough to keep her years ago, but she’d never doubted his integ
rity or absolute conviction about doing the right thing.

“All right, then. It might be easier to talk in your truck instead of the café, anyway.”

B
UDDY MET THEM
in front of his shop. He gave her a quizzical look when he saw Ryan, but she just shrugged.

“I think you’ll be interested in this,” he said. “Come on around back and take a look.”

She followed him through the rubble, cautiously sidestepping sharp bits of metal protruding from the various heaps of junked parts.

Ryan followed close behind, with his hand at her elbow. “You need something for your truck?”

“Not exactly.” She debated how much to say. “I’m…looking for something that belonged to my dad.”

They followed as Buddy ambled to the end of the long metal shed, then over a grassy patch to the door of another, much smaller building. “Careful, ma’am—I got a rattler out here. A five-footer, easy.”

She shuddered, scanning the ground before carefully making her way to his side. “They’ve got plenty of places to hide around here.”

“And since I almost never come out here, there’s probably nests of ’em everywhere.” Buddy jangled through a ring of keys suspended from his belt,
trying several in the padlock, until one finally worked. The door swung open with a rusty squeal, and he reached inside to flip on a light switch. “Couple years ago, I had an employee help me do some organizing. Big mistake, ’cause I never did figure out his system and then he moved on. God only knows what’s in here—or in some of the other sheds.”

She tried to hide her growing disappointment. “So you haven’t actually been back here to check?”

Buddy chuckled. “Scared a lot of rats and a coupla black widows, so I didn’t linger. But with you calling about them parts every day, I finally figured the varmints would be easier to deal with. I think I have what you want.”

From the way he stepped cautiously across the floor, he wasn’t kidding about the varmints. Suppressing a shudder, she followed him, thankful for Ryan’s reassuring presence at her side.

Buddy grabbed a long piece of metal pipe off the floor and tentatively poked at some crumbling cardboard boxes, then kicked them aside.

Stacked against the wall was a collection of car and truck fenders. At least half a dozen of them, in assorted models and colors.

“I didn’t go through all of them, but I did see a pair of ’67 Chevy front fenders out here last night. Thing is, I think Ralph must’ve smudged
my chalk numbers when he was moving things around. And the fenders don’t match.”

Kristin took a sharp breath. “What color?”

“Sorta tan and a black.”

Her excitement kicked up another notch. “Both for a ’67?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re a little rusty on the edges, but Ralph must have stripped them off anyway.” Buddy shifted several fenders, then hauled out the two he’d mentioned.

“So you aren’t hunting down parts for your own truck, then,” Ryan said quietly. “This would be something from your dad’s truck.”

“My Aunt Nora is
convinced
he was forced off the road.”

They stepped over to where Buddy had laid out the two fenders. The beige one was pockmarked with gravel dings, but had no suspicious scrapes or marks.

The black one—driver’s side—bore more significant rust along the bottom, a patch of primer and a deep horizontal crease. But instead of any telltale paint residue, the crease had rusted to a dusty orange.

She couldn’t contain her disappointment. “I…I’d hoped…”

“It still might be possible for a lab to find what you need.” Ryan squeezed her shoulder. “Though
that scrape could’ve come at any time. Even years before your dad’s accident.”

Kristin pulled out her wallet. “How much for the black one?”

Buddy scratched his head and looked at her. “I don’t think this is gonna help none. You don’t know for sure if this is even the right one.”

“I can compare it to the sheriff’s photos,” she said firmly. She started counting out bills from the meager collection in her wallet, then pulled out her Visa. “What’s something like this worth?”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Take it. Keep it long as you need it, if you think it will be any help. Like I said before, Nate was a good friend. It’s the least I can do.”

A
FTER A CALL
to Max, Kristin agreed to stop for a quick lunch at Bertha’s Kolaches, a small lunch-room on the town square and just a half block away from the clinic. One of the few places in the area with decent food, Bertha’s offered sandwiches and soups in addition to its namesake pastries.

Ryan guided Kristin past the old-fashioned lunch counter to one of the few small tables in the back. “I used to come here after high school with my buddies,” he said, glancing at the old-style pressed-tin ceiling and vinyl upholstered stools fixed along the counter. “I don’t think a single thing has changed—except the prices.”

“I vaguely remember being here, too, when I was little.” After a middle-aged waitress took their orders and brought them coffee, she surreptitiously glanced at her watch. She hoped there’d still be enough time to make it to the sheriff’s office with the truck fender. “I wish I remembered seeing you here.”

“You left town years before I was old enough
to drive, so that wasn’t likely. My dad wasn’t one for idle visits to town or for wasting time when we did get in. He mostly left us at home. Other than school and church, we were rarely off the ranch.”

“How is Garrett doing, by the way?”

“Better. His ribs are still sore and he’s been lying around all week, having Adelfa wait on him. Our mother showed up again yesterday, so she’s fussing over him, too.”

“How about his concussion? Is he still having headaches?”

“With Garrett, I suspect everything is always a little worse than it really is. He seems to be doing fine until he knows someone is coming.”

Garrett must’ve been a young boy when his mother walked out, so that wasn’t surprising. “He probably soaks up the attention, don’t you think?”

“That he does. I did find out why he was so sick on the way home, though, and why he refused to get back into the truck at your place.”

“Not the codeine?”

“Adelfa says he gets carsick, and can’t handle being in a backseat at all.
Ever.
” A hint of amusement sparkled in Ryan’s eyes. “He was sure embarrassed when she told me. It doesn’t do much for his rough, tough bull rider image.”

“How on earth does he handle those spinning bulls? Poor guy.” Kristin sipped at her mug of steaming coffee. “I suppose the pain meds from
the E.R. made him woozy enough that he just got in the backseat of your truck without a second thought.”

The waitress brought their sandwiches and chips, then bustled away to take care of the only other customers, who’d just taken seats at the lunch counter near the window.

Despite their relative privacy, Ryan lowered his voice. “Lucky break on that fender.”

Kristin swallowed a bite of her egg salad on rye. “If it’s the right one—and if it even has any evidence on it. This is my one and only lead. The sheriff wasn’t very encouraging, so I hope he’ll follow through.”

“My father is still convinced that Nate was responsible for the losses at the ranch, but I’m not. I want you to know that I’ll keep working on it until I figure it out.” He hesitated. “How close were you to your dad?”

“I didn’t see him as often as I wanted to. Mom and I lived over three hundred miles away, and she and Dad didn’t have an amicable divorce. He worked endless hours on one ranch or another, but saw me when he could.”

“So he could have had, say, a gambling problem and you wouldn’t have known.”

“Gambling?”
Kristin thought of the work-worn man with the weary eyes who’d struggled to provide support checks even after his ex-wife
had told him they weren’t needed. “I wouldn’t believe it. He wasn’t a particularly social man. He wouldn’t have been comfortable in a casino. He had a number of financial reverses, and I remember him being very frugal.”

“He wouldn’t need to be in a casino to gamble.”

“Why—” Realization dawned, and she glared at Ryan. “I suppose you all think that’s where the money went.”

“It isn’t my theory. I’m just asking.”

Kristin glanced pointedly at her watch, then dug a ten-dollar bill out of her purse and dropped it on the table. “I need to get going or I won’t make it to the sheriff’s office in time.”

He reached across the table and caught her hand. “I don’t want us to argue over this, Kris. I
want
your father cleared. For your sake and for Cody’s.”

“If I’m defensive, I’m sorry.” She sank back in her chair, his warm hand still on hers, his thumb rubbing circles gently against her wrist. “I…I’m not the girl I was back in college. Things haven’t always been easy. I’ve had to fight for what I believe in. That won’t change.”

“I sure hope not.” His gaze moved slowly over her face. “I know we’ve had a rocky start here, and maybe things moved too fast after the rodeo. I don’t think either of us was ready to handle that just yet. But I’d like to see you again. A real
date—not with the kids, not with my obstinate brother. Friday? Saturday?” He grinned boyishly. “Tomorrow?”

“I…” She thought about her resolution to keep her distance. The fact that the entire situation was just too complex right now. She had no business becoming involved with a Gallagher. Especially one who’d soon disappear into some war zone and possibly never return.

But that very fact made it impossible to say no. Whatever time she could have, she would take. No one else had ever held her heart so completely. And no one ever would.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Friday…Saturday…and tomorrow sound just fine.”

B
Y THE TIME THEY LEFT
Bertha’s, it was five minutes past one and Kristin had to hurry back to the clinic for a full schedule of patients.

Ryan helped her put the fender in the back of her truck, gave her a swift kiss, then headed back to the ranch, while she counted the minutes until five o’clock when she could go to see the sheriff.

She also spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about that kiss, and long afterward, she still felt the warmth of his touch.

During a brief lull—a no-show mom with two toddlers—she hurried down the block to the Snip and Curl, where she found RaeJean, dressed today
in a pink uniform with a matching ruffled lace bow in her hair. She was taking payment for a permanent at the front desk.

As soon as the client left, her aunt’s face lit up. “Well, bless your heart,” RaeJean exclaimed. “It’s so nice to see you! Do you have time to sit a spell?”

“Actually, I’ve just got a couple minutes between patients, and I’ve come to ask a favor.” There were just two clients still in the shop and both were under hair dryers in the back, but Kristin lowered her voice anyway. “I need to find a babysitter for Cody. Next Saturday. Do you know of anyone? A client, maybe?”

RaeJean drew herself up, a frothy pink picture of indignation. “And what about his great-aunt?”

Kristin had been thinking more along the lines of a high school tomboy who could play catch or video games. “I just figured you must be tired, working such long days. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Take advantage? My gracious, no. I’d be
thrilled.
” Her smile widened. “In fact, he could have a sleepover! We could rent some movies and bake cookies. I have a nice guest room, you know.”

“Well…”

“It’s all set, dear. Don’t you worry your little head about a thing.” RaeJean beamed at her. “This
will be such fun—I never got to have children of my own, you know. I can’t wait! Oh, and if you ever need me again, just say the word.” A timer dinged on one of the hair dryers. “Oops, gotta run. You tell little Cody we’ll have a good time.”

Bemused, Kristin watched her aunt scurry back to the hair dryers. RaeJean truly had a heart of gold, but whether or not
little Cody
saw it that way could be an entirely different matter.

T
HANKFUL THAT
C
ODY
had gone home with Hayden after school again, Kristin called the sheriff’s office, then parked near the door at a quarter after five. Wade came outside to meet her a few minutes later.

“So, you think you’ve found some evidence?” He rubbed his chin as she opened the cab-level camper shell on the back of her truck. “Where’d you get this?”

“Buddy’s. The truck itself was crushed quite a while ago, but he did find some of the salvaged parts.”

Wade frowned. “But how can you be sure this is the right fender?”

“You showed me photos—and Dad did have a black fender. This is the right make and year, and at least part of the number chalked on the underside matches the record on Dad’s truck.”

“Part of it?”

“Some are too blurry to read, but too many things match up for this to be a coincidence. And look at that area with primer—I bet we’ll see it on those photos.”

“Okay. So it could be the fender on your dad’s truck. I’m still not sure that this will prove anything, ma’am.”

She tried to rein in her frustration. “But look at this damage. It could’ve been made by someone veering into him as he was driving. If someone accidentally—or purposefully—crowded him, that might have sent him into the ravine.”

“I had an investigator from San Antonio look over that truck, but he didn’t come up with anything that could prove your theory.” Wade pulled the fender out onto the tailgate of the truck and into the sunlight, and studied the long, narrow crease. “Maybe…just maybe, a lab could still pick up some paint residue in there, under the rust. But how could you prove exactly when this damage was done? It might have been six months earlier. A year. Since this fender didn’t match the color of the truck, it could’ve occurred when it was on a different vehicle.”

Remembering Clint’s animosity toward her father and her, Kristin impulsively grabbed Wade’s forearm. “
Please.
It’s all I have to go on. If a lab can find out what make of vehicle caused
this damage, maybe everything will fall into place.”

Wade hesitated, obviously thinking she was being overly dramatic. “If I send this to the lab, you won’t necessarily get a definitive answer. There could be hundreds of trucks of the same make, model and year in this county alone. And we can’t prove this fender was hit here in Homestead, instead of Dallas or Timbuktu.”

“I understand.”

“We can’t prove
when
it happened, either.”

“I understand that, too.”

“And this could take a good long while. This isn’t going to be high priority for the lab.”

She looked straight at him. “But maybe this
is
a homicide.”

“Maybe,” Wade said gently. “I’m just warning you that we won’t be getting any answers back overnight.” He studied the fender again. “Let’s start by looking at those photos to make sure we have a match. If we do, then I’ll send this in right away, and I’ll push them for an answer as soon as possible. Deal?”

She nodded, waiting by her truck while he went in after the accident report. When he came out with the pictures in his hand, he was frowning.

“We took a lot of photos, especially of the damaged areas of the truck.” He held one of them out, and glanced between the photo and the fender.
“You have the right one, for sure. And look here at this close-up.”

He held out another photo that detailed the narrow horizontal crease—and revealed bare, gleaming metal. It wasn’t rusted. Though it might’ve just been the camera flash reflecting off sharp facets in the metal, she thought she could see some flecks of green.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “It was winter when this happened. Damp for this part of Texas. That could account for the rust coming on so soon. That truck probably sat out in the weather and the weeds for a good while before it was crushed…. And then maybe the fender just laid out there in Buddy’s back lot for a spell, too. I figured the rust could have been from years past, but these pictures prove me wrong.”

“So you believe me?”

“I believe it’s worth a try. We still can’t absolutely prove that your daddy wasn’t dinged by another vehicle
before
his accident…but given his trajectory down that ravine, I’d guess you’re right. If the lab can ferret out any foreign paint chips underneath that rust, at least we’ll have a better idea.”

“And you would follow up? There must be a database on vehicle models and colors.”

“It isn’t quite as easy as you see on those TV shows, ma’am, but I’ll take this to the lab in
Austin at the end of the week.” Wade hoisted the fender out of her truck. “And believe me, I’ll do everything I can.”

R
IGHT AFTER CHURCH
on Sunday, Clint’s cell phone rang. He’d welcomed the call, and the excuse to take off for Austin overnight for a meeting with his campaign manager, as soon as Trevor could get the chopper ready. Lydia had leveled a look of bored nonchalance at him as he made his excuses and left, but he knew how well she could mask her true feelings.

Now that he was back home again, it was only a matter of time before she came after him. Even before he saw her pearl-gray Lincoln parked close to the house, he felt a sense of doom.

Steeling himself, he walked through the main entrance, dropped his suit bag at the door and continued to his office. An eerie sense of emptiness pervaded the house, though surely Adelfa and Lydia were here somewhere. Disgusted by his wayward thoughts, he sorted through the big stack of mail on his desk.

Squinting, he held the first letter close—then farther away. He flipped on the bright halogen desk lamp and adjusted his trifocals. The words swam together like a dizzying school of minnows, just beyond his ability to understand them. He
finally slammed the document down and rubbed his eyes.

“So it’s true.”

The soft voice, which seemed to come out of nowhere, nearly made him jump out of his skin.

“It’s me, Lydia. Over here.”

He turned off the glaring desk lamp and saw her curled up in an overstuffed leather chair in the corner. Wearing some sort of flowing caftan of muted grays, even now she blended into the shadows.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Realizing that we’re both getting old. Who would’ve guessed?”

“Happens,” he shot back, irritated. “If that’s all you had to say, leave me in peace.”