Текст книги "You're Not Safe"
Автор книги: Mary Burton
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Six
Tuesday, June 3, 11 A.M.
Why did Greer Templeton need Mitch? Growing up on the ranch, Bragg had worked the land long enough as a kid to know when a farm was efficient and Bonneville Vineyards was a well-run farm. His boy was smart. Quick on his feet. But he knew less about wine than Bragg.
And as much as he wanted to let go of the reins and trust this was good, he couldn’t. It wasn’t his nature to avoid trouble. Last night’s Internet searches didn’t come close to satisfying what he wanted to know about Greer.
He dialed his phone and after several calls he was connected to Hays County Deputy Eric Howell, who’d been the chief investigator on the Templeton accident. Bragg identified himself, explained what he needed. Howell promised to pull the files within the hour.
Bragg drove straight to Howell’s office located in San Marcos, halfway between Austin and San Antonio. He found the tall, slim officer with thick graying hair in a small back office waiting for him. The man rose and extended his hand.
“Ranger Bragg?”
They clasped hands. “Deputy Howell. Appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
Deputy Howell extended his hand toward a chair. “Got to admit I was surprised. I haven’t heard the Templeton name in awhile. Can I ask why the interest?”
“Her name came up in a murder investigation yesterday.”
Thick brows rose. “Elizabeth Templeton’s name came up?”
“She goes by her middle name, Greer, now. We found a picture of her and our victim nailed to a tree by the body. The picture was taken about twelve years ago.”
“That would have been right around the time of the accident.”
“Correct. The picture was taken at Shady Grove Estates. A camp for troubled teens.”
He opened a thick, dog-eared file. “I heard Elizabeth had been sent away after she tried to kill herself. Hell of a burden to know you drove the car that killed your brother and his girlfriend.”
“Tell me about the accident. The Internet articles gave bare facts.”
He reached for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses in his coat pocket. “Her family spent a lot of money keeping the story as quiet as possible. Of course when you’ve a couple of fatalities, it’s impossible to keep it completely silent no matter how much money you spend.”
“Can you give me a recap of the accident?”
He slipped on his glasses and glanced at the file. “When you called I had the file sent up from archives. I’d forgotten more details than I thought. It was a horrific accident.” He flipped through a couple of pages. “It was Jeffrey Templeton’s twenty-first birthday and the family was celebrating at the Austin Country Club. According to friends it was a big party, and the liquor had flowed. Elizabeth, rather, Greer, was fifteen.”
“How’d those three end up leaving?”
“Witnesses said the brother had been drinking heavily and was sick. He had an early morning appointment, so Greer had offered to take him home away from prying eyes. The girlfriend was also drunk but insisted on riding shotgun in the car because Greer was so young. According to Greer while she was driving a dark stretch of road, a car appeared out of nowhere. She said the car switched into her lane and was headed straight toward her. She said she beeped the horn, but the other driver didn’t budge. At the last second, Greer veered, went off the road, and hit a tree. Jeff and Sydney were thrown from the car. Greer had on her seat belt.”
“Was Greer drinking?”
“At the scene the responding officer could not run a Breathalyzer on Greer because she was so badly injured. He did report her saying she’d not been drinking. Her blood tested negative at the hospital. I saw her several days after the accident. She was recovering from surgery to repair a badly broken leg. By then, the family had lawyered up and a representative from her attorney’s firm was with her. Her parents were not at the hospital. They were at their son’s funeral. Elizabeth was still so injured she couldn’t leave the hospital for the funeral.”
“They wouldn’t delay it for her?”
“They refused.”
“You ever talk to the parents?”
“Sure. A couple of times. Their focus was on losing Jeffrey not Elizabeth.” He leaned back in his chair. “Jeffrey was the favored son. Smart, athletic, and handsome. He had the world on a string. Family had high hopes for him. And then in an instant he was gone. Her mother could barely speak Elizabeth’s name.”
Bragg was silent for a moment, wondering how he’d have handled the weight of such grief. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t have condemned the surviving child. “She goes by Greer now.”
“Right.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Greer was torn up about the accident. Knowing she killed her brother had broken her. I think she wanted to talk to me about Jeff because her parents refused. But with the lawyer there it was hard for her to finish a sentence without being cautioned.”
“How badly was she hurt? You mentioned her leg.”
“Her left femur was broken and her left wrist. Shattering glass cut her arms, she was pinned in the wreckage for several hours before rescue crews could cut her free.”
“Greer said there was another driver.”
He flipped through more pages. “No evidence of another driver. There were no skid marks on either side of the road so if there had been a second driver we found no evidence of it.”
“And the other family sued?”
“They did. The Templetons’ insurance company settled out of court for millions.”
Bragg studied more pictures detailing the tangled metal of the black BMW convertible. It was a miracle she’d escaped the mangled metal alive.
He came to an image featuring Greer being pulled from the car. Blood splashed her white blouse and caked her hair. Her left arm was in a splint and the EMTs were securing her leg. Her gaze was wide-eyed and vacant. Shock, he supposed.
Howell’s chair squeaked as he leaned back in his chair. “You said Elizabeth . . . Greer’s name came up in another investigation. Who was killed?”
Bragg closed the file. “Rory Edwards. He was at Shady Grove Estates with Greer. He was hung from a tree not five miles from her place.”
“Where’s she been all this time? She vanished after the trial and her suicide attempt.”
“Working at Bonneville Vineyards since. Her aunt took her in after the accident.”
“Thirty miles west of Austin?” He shook his head. “I always figured she’s moved as far away from Austin as she could get. My wife was out there for a tour. An older woman ran the place.”
“Her aunt. She passed about six months ago.”
He pulled off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. “I’m glad someone looked after the kid. She was damn near like the walking dead when I saw her last. What’s she like these days?”
“Attractive. Hair’s not blond anymore but natural brown. She’s guarded and not fond of law enforcement.”
“She associates cops with the accident.” Howell shook his head. “Nobody should have allowed Greer behind the wheel of that car. She was fifteen and too young to be driving the back roads unsupervised.”
“You mean the trio didn’t just slip away?”
“Nope. Mother told Greer to drive Jeffrey home, but after the accident Mom put all the blame on her fifteen-year-old.”
Greer’s accident file in hand, Bragg arrived at the Rangers’ Austin office minutes after two. He’d grabbed a burger on the fly and ate it in his car on the drive across town. Once he hit the office it would be nonstop. In addition to the Edwards murder, he had a bank robbery weeks from trial, a request for evidence for a kidnapping case, and subpoena requests to write in a drug case.
He dropped Greer’s file on his desk and instead of sitting, headed straight to Winchester’s office. He found the Ranger leaning back in his chair, the phone pressed to his ear. Winchester beckoned Bragg inside. Bragg took the seat in front of the desk and sat back, balancing his hat on his finger.
“That’s right the name is Edwards. Keep your ear to the ground. Any word comes up about him, I want to know about it.” He nodded. “Good. Talk to you soon.”
“What did you find out?”
Winchester hung up. “Rory Edwards’s been busy the last decade.”
Bragg sat back. “Was it like his brother said?”
Winchester’s seat creaked as he leaned forward. “And then some. The guy’s record is as clean as it was because his brother was always intervening. And like big brother said, he stopped intervening when their mother died last year. If Rory had lived, he’d have been facing serious jail time for fraud and breaking and entering. There’s also a possession charge out there.”
“A drug addict stealing to feed his habit.”
“From all I’ve read that’s exactly what he is. No amount of help was enough to keep this guy out of trouble until last year. He landed in a state rehab program and cleaned up. By all accounts he stayed out of trouble.”
Bragg shook his head. “Can’t say I feel sorry for the guy. The world was at his feet, and he found a way to screw up his life.”
“He isn’t the first to be controlled by addiction and won’t be the last. You talk to Greer Templeton?”
The muscles circling the back of his neck tightened. “I did. She admits Edwards called her days ago but she did not return the call. She’s a hard one to read. But I know she’s holding back. The question is why.”
“I did a little reading up on her accident.”
Bragg nodded. “I did, too. She had one hell of an accident.”
“Kid screwed up. Doesn’t mean she was evil or bad, only young and stupid.”
“I know. She paid one hell of a price for seconds of carelessness.” He worried about the residual marks influencing Greer and ultimately Mitch.
“What motive would she have for killing Edwards? The accident is a matter of public record. And it sure was big headlines for a long time. And if you’re going to kill a guy, why leave the body on your property?”
“Maybe she didn’t like the idea of him digging up the past? Maybe she figured hiding the body in plain sight would deflect attention in the long run. Every time I think I’ve figured out the bad guys they throw me a new curve ball.”
His gut didn’t whisper warning about Greer but without all the facts he couldn’t make a call on her yet. “What about his cell phone records?”
“Put in the request for the warrant. We should have it by tomorrow.”
Bragg checked his phone. No word from Mitch. “What about the truck imprints? Greer Templeton has one truck I saw but she could have many, and this is Texas, home of the pickup truck.”
Winchester nodded. “Here’s hoping the tire has a distinctive trait. Also forensics pulled DNA from the cigarette butt found at the scene. When we get that back I’ll run it through CODIS.”
“Be our lucky day if the killer was in the FBI’s DNA database.”
Winchester grinned. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than smart.”
Luck had abandoned him years back so he wasn’t counting on her. “Right.”
“David Edwards will want an answer. He might not have liked his brother, but he’ll want this case closed so it can be forgotten.”
“Rory gets my best just like any other victim.” He straightened. “Did you hear Mitch took a job?”
“No. That’s good, correct?”
Bragg brushed a bit of dust from his cuff. “The offer came from none other than Greer Templeton.”
Winchester didn’t hide his surprise. “You’re shitting me.”
“No, I am not.”
“Hell of a coincidence.”
“Hell of a time for a coincidence.”
“They do happen. Sometimes.”
Winchester shoved out a breath. “You going to pull the plug on the job?”
He thought about Mitch gobbling his meal last night and of Greer’s willingness to keep the boy even after his grilling. “No. Not for now. But as I told Greer, I will be watching.”
Jackson sat straight behind the wheel of his car, parked on the grimy side street in East Austin. “It won’t be easy to fool this woman.”
“Did you send her the package?”
“Yes. She should have gotten it yesterday.” His hands trembled a little when he thought about leaving the neatly wrapped box on her doorstep. “You are always so calm?”
“My cool head is why you keep me around.” He heard the smile in her voice.
“Is that the reason?” His anger leached out in his tone.
“Now. Now.”
The woman, Sara Wentworth, slid out of the Lexus and her designer heels clicked with each crisp step. A sleek blue blouse draped slim shoulders and was tucked into a white pencil skirt that showed off a narrow waist and hips. She carried a briefcase that was as expensive as her diamond earrings and pearl necklace. A French manicure and a neat haircut finished the look of a woman used to the finer things.
“She looks nice. Perfect.”
“Fine clothes and a smile hide so much. We both know that.”
Annoyance snapped. “You always do that.”
“Do what?” She sounded amused.
He gritted his teeth, his gaze on Sara as she moved toward the old warehouse. “Bring up the past.”
“The past never goes away. It is with us forever.”
“Some people leave the past behind.”
“Maybe. But not you. And certainly not me.”
“I want to.”
“You never will as long as I’m around.” Her laughter rumbled in his ears.
For a long moment he was silent and sullen. He hated it when she taunted him. She could be such a bitch.
“Now you are mad,” she teased.
“I am.”
“Was it something I said?” She laughed.
He would not be baited. Not today. “We have a job to do. Today. In the here and now. We can quibble about the past another time.”
“You are no fun.”
“Focus on the woman. Sara Wentworth.”
After a brief silence she said, “Vice president of commercial sales. She’d moved up the ladder quickly and managed to make a sizeable fortune beyond what her family has given her.
“By everyone’s standards she is the model of success. Perfect. Had a tight hold on the brass ring.”
“She’s not what she seems,” she said.
“I know.” But he didn’t need her pointing out Sara had mastered the art of elaborate disguise to hide bitter sadness. Once Sara had wanted to leave this life and go on to a better existence. Though she’d failed the first time, he wouldn’t fail this time.
“Can you do this alone?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see.” Her smart-ass undertone jabbed at his temper, teasing it as if it were a bear in a cage, but he didn’t have time for another argument. He had a job to do.
Irritated, he drove into the parking lot and got out of his car. He adjusted his jacket and moved toward her, careful not to startle her. Rory’s weakness had been booze. Sara’s was making money. She was as addicted to it as Rory had been to the bottle.
“Ms. Wentworth?” His voice was clear and direct.
She started, turned abruptly, and then faced him. She studied him a beat, clearly assessing threat, and then, finding none, her painted red lips widened into a smile of white teeth. “Mr. Corwin, good to see you again.”
He grinned and extended his hand as he approached. He kept his gaze indirect, his posture slack, nonthreatening. “Sorry I had to miss our meeting yesterday. I had to fly back to D.C.”
“No problem.”
This close he could smell the subtle rich scent of her perfume. “I’m excited about the property.”
She appraised his expensive sports jacket, the rich tan accentuating a white starched shirt and his heavily creased khakis. Appreciation flared and she smiled. “I am, too. How many restaurants did you say you wanted to open in Austin?”
“I’m starting with the one. I’ve a chain back East but want to take the Texas expansion slow. I’m conservative about growth.”
“Texas loves business.”
He grinned, knowing his smile melted hearts. “That’s what I hear.”
She reached for a ring of keys and unlocked the padlock on the property’s front door. “The property is fifteen thousand square feet, three levels, and has lots of freezer space as you requested.”
“Excellent. Let’s look at the freezers first. They need to be large.”
She grinned, bright, her eyes all but flashing dollar signs at the possible sale. “Right this way.”
He thought about the other woman in the car waiting and watching. He couldn’t disappoint her. “Great.”
One down, four to go.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, June 3, 12 P.M.
The site selection for Bonneville Vineyards had not been scientific. Greer’s aunt had said many times she’d chosen the land because it had felt right, whole and spiritual. Twenty years ago when the thousand-acre site had beckoned Lydia away from the social circles of Austin, she’d known little about growing grapes or terroir, the juxtaposition of soils, climate, and topography. She’d only understood the land rolled and swayed like a beckoning hand and the old ranch house had been in need of a new occupant.
And so on a cold January day two decades ago, Lydia had moved into the nineteenth-century ranch house made of board-and-batten walls and encircled by a wide porch. She’d spent those first months restoring the house and making it habitable and then in the spring had planted her first vines.
What Lydia lacked in science she made up for in luck. She’d inadvertently chosen the perfect site to grow grapes. Though Texas was a land of extremes—cold, heat, hail, and drought—Bonneville enjoyed the right blend of moisture-laden soil, hot Texas sunshine to nourish the vines, and gentle steady breezes to chase away pests.
And as Bonneville had welcomed Lydia, so it had greeted Greer with meandering hillsides, orange-yellow sunsets, and temperate breezes. She’d been too battered to appreciate the beauty initially, but soon the land had eased her sour moods and guided her away from grief. Now she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
“Good morning, Miss Templeton,” José West said.
She smiled. “Good morning, José.”
José West was a midsize man with thick arms and deeply colored skin from years in the sun. There’d been a time when he could heft one-hundred-pound sacks of fertilizer without a thought, but in the last year much of that boundless strength had waned. The graying at his temples had deepened and his eyes no longer sparked with challenge.
He had been managing Bonneville Vineyards for twenty years, and he’d not been pleased when Lydia had brought Greer to Bonneville. He’d made it clear he did not have time to babysit. Greer had made it clear she did not want to work in the dirt with a gruff man. But Lydia had insisted in a not-too-friendly tone that the two get along. “The grapes do no care about your problems,” she had shouted to them both.
Neither liked the other but both respected Lydia enough to try. And so Greer had followed José to his truck that first morning at sunrise. She’d had a terrible headache, still limped from her accident, and had wanted only to return to her bed and pull the covers over her head. José, mumbling in Spanish, had grumbled about moody teenage girls. When she’d glanced back at Lydia hoping for a reprieve, she’d found her aunt smiling.
By noon of that first day, Greer had been covered in sweat. Her hands had ached and her legs covered with scratches from the vines. To say her mood had lightened would have been a lie. José had explained how to prune the dead vines and leaves and watched as she’d practiced. Midday, he’d ordered her to return to the main house to rest her injured leg. Though she’d never have admitted it then, she would confess now there’d been a flicker of accomplishment when she’d limped to the waiting truck.
José had come again for her the next day and again on the next. She’d followed him, sullen and silent, into the fields. That first harvest season, neither had spoken more than six words to the other. But she’d learned how invasive weeds could be to the Texas Hill Country vines and how to curse them in both Spanish and English. She’d grown adept at jiggling the truck’s spark plug so it would fire and the engine would start. At harvest time, she’d learned to sharpen the blade of her pruning knife and how to cut, twist, and toss a cluster of grapes quickly and gently.
The vineyard allowed no time for self-pity or much reflection. It required her full and immediate attention all day, every day. No weekends off. No vacations and abbreviated holidays. The vineyard wanted her body and soul, and she was grateful to give herself over to it.
Over the next two seasons, José had taught her about soil, sun, rainfall, and drainage. He’d taught Greer about the life cycle of a grape and how to tell when the grapes were the sweetest. Without a lot of words spoken, they’d become friends.
By the end of her third season, her mother had started talking of college back East. But by then the land and the grapes had infected Greer’s blood and filled her mind with dreams of expansion and winemaking. To her mother’s disappointment, she’d forgone an Eastern school and earned a viticulture certificate from Texas Tech.
Now, accomplishment burned as she studied her land. This was her last season as a grower. This time next year she’d be making wine. She didn’t yearn to mass-produce wines but to create wines conveying quality.
“Your aunt would be proud,” José said.
“Yes.” It still saddened her Lydia would never taste the first Bonneville wine. “We’ll drink a toast to her with the first bottle.”
He cleared his throat but didn’t speak.
José had been hit as hard by Lydia’s death as Greer. Though they’d not made their relationship public, Greer knew José and Lydia had been lovers for years. For Lydia, he’d always grieve.
“How is the new boy working out?” she said.
He squinted against the sun as he watched Mitch watering the horses. “He’s done well with the horses.” He frowned. “We’re not a horse farm and we cannot afford to feed the horses or the man who feeds them.”
“We can afford a couple of old horses, and Mitch knows he’ll work in the fields.”
“When?”
“You can have him today. After he feeds the horses he’s all yours.”
Lines around José’s mouth deepened as he studied the animals. “Lydia gave you a dog. Why didn’t you give him a dog?”
She thought back to the mutt Lydia had given her after the first harvest. The Golden Shepherd mix had been six weeks old. Like the grapes, the dog had not cared about her past. There was simply now. Sadie had lived eight years and been there to greet her each morning, barking when she’d left for Texas Tech and when she’d returned. “I spotted the FOR SALE sign at the horse farm while I was driving home. Buying the horses made sense.”
José snorted and kicked the dirt with his boot. “You can’t save the world.”
“No, not the world.”
José flexed his hands, now bent and swollen by arthritis. “But you hope to do for him what Lydia did for you?”
“I promised Lydia I would help one person. Just one.”
“And he is your one?”
“I asked Dr. Stewart to give me someone to help. He gave me Mitch. So yes, he is the one.”
“Why was there a Texas Ranger here yesterday? Was it about the hanging?”
“Yes.” She shoved out a breath. José didn’t trust the law. “And he’s Mitch’s uncle.”
A string of Spanish curse words rumbled out with his next breath. “Was he here for the hanging or the boy?”
“Both.”
“Why would he ask you about the dead man?” She rubbed the back of her neck with her hands. “Because I knew him.”
“How?”
“From before Bonneville. From Shady Grove.”
José frowned. They’d never talked about that time but Lydia had told him. “That is not good.”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
She’d thought a lot about Shady Grove in the last twenty-four hours. She’d not kept up with any of the kids from her pod, not even Betty, whom she’d had a chance meeting with a couple of years ago at a wine festival. Greer had been taken back. Their conversation had been awkward, each anxious to gain distance from the other.
Shady Grove and the accident had been a distant dull pain until yesterday.
Why did you do this to me, Rory? Why now?
With Rory’s death, Mitch, and now Bragg’s watching, she feared she’d bitten off too much. “How do the grapes look today?”
“They’re plump and ripe. The spring was good to us, and if these next two or three weeks are hot and dry, we will be ready for harvest by early July.”
“How many tons do you think this year?”
“The new vines you planted five years ago will be ready. With them, I think we’ll have twenty-thousand tons.”
“A sizeable load.”
“The wineries will be pleased. We could turn a nice profit this year.”
“Next year we will be making our own wine, just as Lydia dreamed.”
Frowning, José pulled a bandana from his back pocket and glanced back toward land cleared for the winery. He disapproved. They were farmers in his mind. They grew the finest grapes in Texas and were no winemakers.
A smile teased the edge of her lips. “Go ahead and say it, José.”
For a moment he was silent. “I fear you’ve extended yourself too far, Greer.”
There were days when she thought she teetered on the edge of the cliff. “I’ve taken a risk.”
José again wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. “You’ve always done the work of three, but you are only one person.”
I’m living for me, as well as Jeff and Sydney. “Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.”
Bragg arrived at the forensic technician’s lab at a quarter before five. Melinda Ashburn leaned over her microscope, analyzing a section of rope. “That the rope that hanged Edwards?”
She didn’t lift her gaze as she adjusted the focus. “It is.”
“That unusual?”
“It’s a natural synthetic, heavy duty, and could be purchased at any number of hardware stores.”
“How much do you have there?”
“A couple of hundred feet. It couldn’t hurt to check area stores for anyone who bought this kind of rope.”
“That’s something. What about the cigarette butt?”
“Did get some DNA and have sent it off. It’ll take weeks or months unless your victim’s brother puts a little heat on the system.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll give him a call.”
“Good. Because I’m a little curious myself.”
“Tire tracks?”
“Got a clear print. I’m now checking databases to find the make and model. Shouldn’t be long.”
Bragg dug out a slip of paper from his pocket. “Let me know if it matches this brand.”
She glanced at the paper. “Who does the tire belong to?”
“Vineyard near the crime scene.”
“You’ll be the first I call.”
“Any other evidence from the crime scene?”
“Footprints. Size eleven. Athletic shoe. Hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman. The wearer’s left foot pronates out. Note how the back heel is worn.”
Bragg studied the print. “Another piece to the puzzle. What about fingerprints?”
“Only the victim’s on the photograph. Whoever else was out there was careful not to leave prints.”
He thought about the roads leading to the area where they’d found the body. Back rural country roads had little traffic at night. “The closest gas station to the site is five miles away.”
“And there are no cameras there. I checked on the way out.”
Bragg had barely stepped through the front door of his home when he heard Mitch’s keys in the door. He stood at the small kitchen table, his hat tossed casually in the center, and was reaching to unsnap his gun from the holster.
He straightened, doing his best not to look like a Ranger. He’d perfected this stone-faced expression during his years with DPS and the Rangers. He could slide on the expression as easily as a worn pair of boots. But with Mitch, he’d worked hard knocking down barriers. Life had done a good bit to build walls between them, and he didn’t want to add more bricks.
But the more he showed concern for Mitch the more the boy retreated into himself and so he was training himself to hold back. A little.
His boy’s face and hands were covered in dirt and his hair was askew as if he’d run his fingers through it. His jeans and T-shirt were soaked in sweat and his boots covered in mud. Rode hard and put up wet.
“How’d the job go?” Bragg couldn’t help a smile.
Mitch glanced up and met his gaze. “Good.”
“They drag you through the mud?”
A slight grin tugged the edge of his mouth. “I’m working with a couple of horses. Nags, really. One has a bad attitude.”
The black one. “That’s your job?”
His muscles didn’t constrict with customary strain. “For starters. Today I was in the field. Dude name José showed me how to weed.”
Not she. Not Greer. “You like the boss?”
“Hard to read. Kind of edgy but shoots straight.”
“José?”
“No. Greer.” As tempted as he was to press for details about Greer, he held back.
Mitch sat on the hearth and tugged off his boots. Bragg had wondered why any Central Texas builder would put a fireplace in a house. The temperatures rarely dipped below fifty even in the dead of winter, and he’d never built a fire in the damn thing. They both used it as Mitch was now: a way station to pull off or stow dirty boots.
“Judging by your clothes I’d say it’s been a good day’s work.”
“Not bad.”
“Get yourself washed up, and I’ll make us a couple of burgers.”
“Sounds good.”
Bragg watched his nephew vanish down the hallway toward the bathroom. There was a small spring in his step he’d never seen before. Mitch might not ever recapture the naïve youth he’d had before Iraq, but a bit of the darkness had lifted.
Greer had bought those nags for Mitch. She’d said the boy’s hiring had been a favor, a promise to her late aunt. He supposed he should be grateful she’d reached out to Mitch.
But why Mitch? Why now? The Ranger would not let the man enjoy this good fortune and simply let go of the gnawing suspicion tugging at his gut.
Most nights Greer crawled into bed by eleven, her body too tired to function. Often her aunt had said she was pushing herself too hard but Greer hadn’t agreed. The way she figured it, the more she crammed into her life the more she believed she’d make up the time Jeff and Sydney had lost.
Earlier in the evening she’d been working on the books and fatigue had struck with such force, she’d broken a rule and made a strong pot of coffee after two in the afternoon. The caffeine kick would throw her off but she’d needed to crunch numbers.
That burst of energy now exacted a price of worry and restless energy.
Hoping to relax, she’d showered and donned an oversize T-shirt that skimmed her thighs. Damp hair hung around her shoulders, and she’d traded contacts for glasses. But relaxation escaped her.
So here she sat, wired, her mind tripping back through the day analyzing every detail. A sample tasting had revealed the grapes were sweetening on schedule. Science helped determine peak flavor, but much of the process remained up to educated guess. A wrong guess—too sweet or too sour—meant a less-than-successful harvest and loss of much-needed profits.
