“As I said before, Coleman has journals for each of you. I’ve written down everything I know. As to whether you go back to find your roots or not, that is your choice, but I caution each of you to remember, your lives were in danger then. They could be again.”
The video ended. This time Holly turned off the TV, then covered her face.
Bud took her in his arms and began patting her back as he’d done countless times before when she’d been a child.
“I’m sorry, Holly, so sorry this is happening.”
She didn’t answer. The only thing she was capable of at the moment was tears, and Bud knew enough to let her cry it out.
He’d been a young man, barely out of his teens, when he’d come to work for Andrew Slade, but over the years he and Andrew had become best friends. He’d adored Andrew’s girls from the start, and they’d returned the feeling. He wasn’t sure when he realized his fondness for Holly had turned into something more.
Holly was twenty-five now, finally old enough for his thirty-nine years. But there were too many years of familial friendship between them for him to hope their relationship could become anything more.
Finally Holly pulled out of his embrace and reached for a handful of tissues.
“Sorry. You’d think I’d be past this by now.”
“It’s okay. Indecision is troubling enough on its own, without all this other crap to deal with.”
Holly laughed through tears. “That’s what I love about you, Bud. You always cut to the chase.”
Bud’s gaze was fixed on her mouth. Her lips were slightly swollen from crying and begging to be kissed. It was all he could do to back away.
“That’s me—To-the-Point Tate. And speaking of getting to the point, I came to tell you not to bother making lunch for me. I’ve got to take some of the hands over to the high country, and find the rest of the cows and new calves.”
All of a sudden Holly had found a task that she could handle.
“There’s no need going without anything to eat until night. There’s a full platter of fried chicken in the refrigerator, and at least a dozen leftover biscuits. You can at least take that for you and the boys.”
Bud grinned and then kissed the side of her cheek. “You’re the best.”
Holly’s pulse surged. If she’d turned her mouth just the tiniest bit to the left, that kiss would have landed squarely on her lips.
“Give me a couple of minutes to pack it up for you.”
“I’ll grab a couple of six-packs of Mountain Dew, and we’ll be good to go. The boys and I thank you.”
Holly flew to her task, feeling a brief moment of respite from all her confusion. This home was where her heart was, and its heart was the kitchen— Holly’s favorite room.
Within minutes Bud and the food were gone, and Holly was once again alone, only this time with a better attitude.
She got a couple of cookies and a can of Pepsi, and went back into the den to get her journal—the one Andrew had left for her alone.
She’d read it through a dozen times over in the past three days since learning the truth, and it still hadn’t gotten any better. How did one go from being the oldest daughter of a respected Montana rancher to the only child of a suspected serial killer? The knot in her stomach drew tighter as she picked up the journal and took it to her room. She crawled up onto her bed with the Pepsi and cookies, and once again read the words that had officially ended her happy world.
You were born in St. Louis, Missouri, as Harriet Mackey, the only child of Harold and Twila Mackey. It was while I was preaching at a week-long revival that I first met your mother. She came every night and sat in the front row with you close by her side. I remember thinking her expression seemed sad, even haunted. It wasn’t until later that I fully understood why. As for you, you were a very quiet child who played with Maria and Savannah during the services every night, and often fell asleep with them, tumbled up on top of each other like a bunch of worn-out puppies who’d played too hard.
The last night of the revival, your mother was back, but this time she was also carrying a suitcase, along with you. It wasn’t until the services were over that I fully understood her intentions, but by then I’d already accepted that God was leading me to these desperate women who had nowhere else to turn. Your eyes were red and swollen and you kept clinging to your mother’s arm. When she explained what she wanted of me, you didn’t flinch or weep…as if you already understood the need.
What you must understand is that, unlike Maria’s and Savannah’s mothers, yours had no intention of giving you away. She was desperate to get you out of the public eye. She claimed that she had recently come to believe that her husband was a serial killer the police were searching for, and who had been leaving women’s bodies all over St. Louis for months. The police didn’t have a single clue on which to act, but your mother was convinced that her husband, your father, was the man. She said she had evidence. She was going to turn him in, wait for his arrest, and then, after everything died down, she would come and get you. She had plans for the two of you to start life over under another name and in another state. But she never came. And no one was ever arrested. I could only draw one conclusion: that she’d been murdered for her intentions.
Unable to read any more, Holly laid the journal and her food aside, and curled up in the fetal position. She was still shocked that she had no memories of her parents, or of living anywhere other than the Triple S Ranch. According to the journal, she was five when her mother sent her away with Andrew Slade. So what happened? What had she seen that had been so horrible she’d been willing to block out everything, including a mother who loved her that much?
She lay without moving, staring blindly at the photo hanging on the wall in front of her—one she’d always considered her favorite family portrait. Andrew in his easy chair beside the Christmas tree; Maria sitting on one arm of the chair; Savannah on the floor at his feet; Holly on the other arm of the chair, and Bud standing behind them with a hand on Holly’s shoulder. It was a pretty picture, but it was a lie. That family was a fake, and the revelation of their births had torn apart what was left of them.
Maria was already gone. She’d flown out of Montana three days earlier on her way back to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where she’d been born. She was determined to regain her memory and find the killer who’d ended her mother’s life.
Savannah was on a similar quest. She’d left for Miami, Florida, the day before yesterday to begin proceedings to claim her inheritance and solve the mystery behind her birth father’s death.
Unlike her sisters, Holly wasn’t driven to find out all the secrets of her past. She didn’t want to leave the ranch…or Bud. She didn’t want to open the Pandora’s box of her past for fear she would wind up like her mother—gone without a trace. Yet at the same time, she couldn’t quit thinking about her. If she
had
been murdered like the other women in St. Louis all those years ago, Holly had to go back. She owed it to her mother—to all the victims—to tell the police about her mother’s suspicions. She could at least do that. Ignoring the knot in her belly, she rolled off the bed and pulled a suitcase from the back of her walk-in closet.
As she began to move from bed to closet and back again, packing for what might turn out to be an extended stay, her nerves began to ease. The simple act of packing had solidified a purpose, which was what she’d been lacking.
Late in the evening, the men returned. She saw Bud drive toward the house as she carried a load of laundry to the kitchen table to be folded.
She heard his truck stop out back, then the hurried sound of footsteps as he hit the porch running.
She frowned. Something was wrong. Concerned, she was on her way to the door when he burst into the kitchen. His face was pale, his lips tight in a grimace of obvious pain. Her gaze slid to his hand and the towel wrapped around it, then to the blood soaking through the fabric.
“Oh, my God! Bud! What did you do?”
“I was cutting the baler twine off some hay bales and got caught in the middle of a dispute between those two damned herd mares. My knife slipped.”
“Is it bad? Let me see.”
“I’m okay, honey. I’ll just wash it off, wrap it up and—”
Holly wasn’t buying it. “Come with me,” she said, and led him into her room, then through to her bathroom. “Can you take your coat off without getting blood all over it?”
“Don’t worry about the blood. It’s my work coat.” The towel fell into the sink as he began to slip one arm from a sleeve.
Before his coat was off, Holly saw the gaping wound on the palm of his hand. “Oh, no, that’s going to need stitches. Leave your coat on. I’m driving you into Missoula.”
“Well, hell.”
“Does it hurt much?” she asked, as she grabbed a fresh towel and wrapped it tightly around his hand.
“It’s beginning to.”
Holly saw a muscle jerking in the side of his jaw; his skin was pale and clammy. Shock.
“I’m so sorry.” She cupped the side of his face. “Let me get my coat and the car keys, and we’ll be ready to go.”
Bud flinched at her touch, and tried not to give himself away. Needing to keep an emotional distance between them, he glanced through the doorway to the suitcase on her bed.
“Looks like you’re busy packing. I can get one of the men to drive me.”
Holly turned on him, her eyes blazing. “You’ll do no such thing!” She grabbed her coat from the closet and her purse off the bed, and led him back through the house and into the garage.
“We should take the work truck,” Bud said, as he hesitated beside the door of the family Lincoln. “I’ll get blood on these seats.”
Holly ignored him and opened the passenger door. “Sit,” she said briefly, then leaned over and buckled him in.
She was so focused on hurrying that she didn’t hear his swift intake of breath as her hair brushed across his face, and even if she had, she would not have recognized it as the bone-deep want for Holly Slade with which he lived.
Within minutes Holly was on the highway and speeding toward Missoula.
“There’s no need to speed,” Bud said.
Her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun coming through the windshield. She glanced quickly at Bud’s hand to see if blood had begun seeping through again, then back at the highway.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood. What if this had happened after I was gone?”
“Then one of the men would have driven me into town,” he said, and looked away, suddenly interested in the passing scenery.
Knowing she was going back to where she was born and into such a dangerous situation was making him crazy. If he’d been paying attention to his business instead of thinking about her, he would have had the presence of mind to get out of the way of the mares and not been cut at all.
Holly’s fingers gripped the steering wheel even tighter as she drove. Even though it was an improbable title, she considered herself the caretaker of the Triple S. She didn’t want someone else usurping her place, which was just another reason she’d told herself she shouldn’t go.
She made the drive to Missoula in record time, took the street leading to the hospital and then made the turn leading to the emergency room. She was out and opening Bud’s door before he could unbuckle his seat belt. Again she leaned in, hit the button and released the catch.
“Lean on me,” she said, and slipped her arm around his waist to steady his steps.
He felt helpless, which made him angry. “There’s nothing wrong with my feet.”
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Holly argued.
“I’m not going to pass out.”
“You don’t know that,” she muttered, as they walked into the E.R.
The receptionist looked up.
“We need a doctor. He’s bleeding badly,” Holly said.
The receptionist offered her a clipboard with a personal history chart and insurance info to be filled out.
Holly glared. “I’m sorry. You must not have heard me. He has been bleeding like this for the past twenty minutes. That bloody towel on his hand is the second one he’s soaked. We need a doctor, not a medical form.”
The receptionist frowned, but got up from her chair and hurried through a pair of swinging doors, then returned with a doctor.
“Thank you so much,” Holly said, and pointed to the clipboard. “I’ll help him fill that out while they’re stitching him up.”
Still irked that her rules had been challenged, the receptionist handed her the clipboard without comment.
Holly didn’t care if she’d ruffled some feathers. Her focus was on Bud’s welfare as she followed him into an exam room. Within minutes the doctor and a nurse had his coat off and his shirtsleeve rolled up, and the nurse was cleaning debris from the cut while Holly dutifully filled out the questionnaire, asking Bud questions when she didn’t know the answers.
It was the first time she could remember seeing him helpless and in pain, and she didn’t like it. He was always the go-to man. It shocked her that he could be felled so easily, which led to thoughts of the only father she’d ever known, Andrew. Once she’d thought the same of him, but fate had proven her wrong. One minute Andrew had been talking and laughing, and the next he had dropped dead of an aneurysm.
Now she was back in the same hospital where Andrew had been brought, only this time it was Bud on the examining table. Even though this injury wasn’t life-threatening, it panicked her to think she could ever lose him, too.
As she sat watching them work, her focus was on Bud, and it was as if she were seeing him for the very first time.
Nearly forty, he was a man in his prime at six feet three inches tall, with dark straight hair and even darker eyes, and angular features. Holly caught herself staring at the sensual cut of his lips, then at a mouth that was often curved in laughter. He caught her staring and winked.
Holly blinked. Just for a second she’d let herself pretend he was hers to admire. It startled her enough that she blushed and actually looked away, then wondered why. It was just Bud being Bud and trying to lighten the moment. He couldn’t know how she felt. It didn’t mean anything.