Текст книги "You're Not Safe"

Автор книги: Mary Burton

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Her mind skipped from grapes to the new hand. Mitch. He’d done well today. Quiet, he’d remained to himself but he’d kept a close eye on the horses, and he’d worked to complete the corral expansion. There’d been times during the day when he hammered so hard, she wondered if he pounded nails or nightmares. He’d worked to exhaustion far past the five o’clock quitting time.

Too early to tell if she’d made the right choice with Mitch, but, as with the grapes, all the analysis and thought simply translated into a gut feeling and hope.

The last time she’d reached out to really help another boy, she’d chosen Rory. She’d been filled with youthful optimism and a deeply rooted need to atone. She’d thought then if she could save him, she could somehow make up for the loss of Jeff and Sydney. And so she’d poured her heart and soul and love into him, and he’d lapped it up like a starving man. For weeks she’d thought perhaps she’d found a savior in Rory. Together they would heal.

Though Rory said all the right words about change and a brighter future, his actions told a different story. He was such a beautiful boy, and he caught everyone’s attention. The girls wanted him. The men resented him. At first she’d convinced herself the attention wasn’t important to him because he only had eyes for her.

But in the coming weeks, she realized he craved attention as much as he had drugs. He often stopped to speak to the girls and savored their flirting. Several times she’d spotted him lurking around the medical center, his expression lean and hungry. She’d known if not for her, he’d have stolen whatever could be sold or traded for a high. Never enough attention. Never enough drugs.

And then he’d left camp, and his promises to stay in touch had been forgotten.

Greer drew in a tight breath. She’d thought the years had softened the old wounds but seeing Mitch today had brought so much back. His eyes glistened with the same dullness she’d seen in Rory’s. The urge to rescue had risen up strong.

Mitch, like Rory, came with a family that did not trust or particularly like her. Whereas David Edwards had intimidated her twelve years ago, now she could handle him. Tec Bragg was another matter. He had a distinctive energy about him. Caged and prowling, it moved under the stony façade like an animal.

“Bragg,” she muttered as she pushed her hair off her face and sat back against the pillows.

If Ranger Tec Bragg was a likeable man, then he did a great job of hiding it. He wore the Ranger’s traditional attire but she sensed he’d chafed at the uniform. A tall, powerful man, he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Though she’d dealt with enough men like him in the fields and on the construction crews, she doubted any she’d ever encountered matched him in tenacity.

She reached for her laptop and searched Ranger Tec Bragg’s name, really not sure what would pop up. To her surprise there was an eight-month-old article about Bragg’s working on the border. A cartel had crossed into Texas and killed a half dozen Mexican nationals and two border agents. Bragg and a couple of other Rangers tracked the shooters to a small town miles inside the Texas border. The article had said there’d been fierce fighting. A standoff in a warehouse. The survivors would have been overrun if not for Bragg, who positioned himself on top of a vehicle with a rifle equipped with a night scope, and had fired. He’d received tremendous return fire, but he’d not flinched. He’d held his position until help had arrived.

It wasn’t what the article said that caught her attention but the image of Bragg leading a man away in cuffs. Bragg’s cheek was bleeding as if it had been slashed with a knife and his T-shirt was covered in dirt and blood. His expression was fierce to the point of feral.

Greer stared at the computer image of Bragg. His dark eyes projected an anger contacting like a bare-knuckled fist.

Had she made a mistake tangling with Bragg? No matter, she’d set out on a course and would not stop now. She could only hope he stayed clear of the vineyard. But with Mitch she’d be seeing him again.

She slid under the covers, hoping if she closed her eyes the caffeine would take pity and let her sleep. “Just a few hours,” she muttered. “Not much time. Barely a little.”

Breathing deeply, in and out, as she’d been taught so many years ago, her body did relax. She focused on breath and let the day go.

Soon she was asleep.

But slumber did not bring relief. Instead of blissful oblivion she found herself back behind the wheel of her brother’s new red sports car.

Her manicured hands clutched the wheel and the wind blew her blond hair. She felt free. Grown up. Her brother was in the back. And beside Elizabeth, Sydney lay with her head against the headrest.

Elizabeth had not begrudged them this night. It had been a great night. The party perfect. And Jeff had been the son any parent revered. She had been anxious to please her mother and quietly spirit away the overzealous brother who’d had a bit too much.

Elizabeth reached for the radio, switched stations, and turned up the volume. The moon was full and the stars bright.

She considered herself more grown up than most fifteen-year-old girls. A step ahead of the rest. She cranked the radio.

And when she’d first spotted the headlights on the horizon, she gave them little thought. She let the music wash over her. She approached a small two-lane bridge, knowing she was less than fifteen minutes from home.

However, as the two cars approached the bridge, the other car switched into her lane. For a moment she thought she’d imagined the move but quickly realized the other car was headed right toward her.

She laid on the horn, startling Jeff.

“What the hell, Elizabeth?” he shouted as he wiped the drool from his lip.

Elizabeth gripped the wheel, her gaze now darting wildly to the left and the right for an escape route. If they made it to the bridge, they’d collide.

She laid on the horn again.

“Shit!” Jeff shouted.

She had seconds to decide but those seconds dragged like minutes. Closer and closer. Fifty feet from the bridge.

Left was a stream, right trees.

The other car barreled toward her, gaining speed.

Jump or dive.

Her heart thundering in her chest, she jerked the wheel to the right and the sports car rumbled over the rutted ground and crashed head-on into a tree.

The next moments blurred in a barrage of pain, crunching metal, and blood.

Greer started awake, shoving a trembling hand through her hair as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Her palms sweating and her head throbbing. “Dammit.”

In the weeks after the accident she’d been haunted by the dream. It had been the same every time. The oncoming headlights. Jeff’s panicked expletive. And the crash.

Her next memory had been at the hospital. Later she learned from EMTs she’d talked about the other car. She was certain the other car had stopped. That the driver had spoken to her.

But she had no memory to offer more specifics.

In the end the police had determined she’d fallen asleep at the wheel. She’d been young. Inexperienced. No fault. Just a terrible accident.

Greer shook her head.

It hadn’t been an accident.

She’d known for a dozen years.

But that didn’t change the fact that two people were dead. And the burden of their deaths would always weigh on her.

Chapter Eight

Wednesday, June 4, 1 A.M.

David Edwards sat on the leather sofa in his study, surrounded by his richly bound first edition books, paintings of Texas landscapes, and a collection of knickknacks he’d paid a designer a fortune to choose.

On the mahogany table was a bundle of ten letters. Written twelve years ago, the writer’s handwriting was precise for a teen and the words surprisingly articulate. The letters had been written by Elizabeth Greer Templeton and sent to his brother, Rory. On orders from his father he’d confiscated the letters and had promised to destroy them. But when he’d opened them, he’d been curious about anyone who saw redeeming qualities in his brother.

Dear Rory,

Camp is not the same without you. We all miss the way you could make us laugh. I miss the way you hugged me and the way your eyes lit up when you told me I was pretty.

David sat back on the sofa staring at the letter as he sipped whiskey. After he’d read Elizabeth’s first letter he’d done some research on her. It hadn’t been easy because her family guarded their secrets as closely as the Edwards family guarded theirs. But enough money opened the right doors at Shady Grove, and he’d gotten a copy of her file.

The instant he’d read her dossier he knew she was trouble. Nothing good would come of Rory’s dalliance with her or anyone else.

David continued to confiscate her letters to Rory and Rory’s to her. David had expected Elizabeth to give up on Rory, but she’d kept writing until finally he’d been moved to drive out to Shady Grove and speak to her. She’d been defiant, determined and insistent about visiting Rory. No threats had swayed her. She’d sworn she’d find a way. And she had tried. In the end, Rory, being Rory, had failed Elizabeth.

Over the last dozen years, he’d kept tabs on Elizabeth. He’d known all along she lived at Bonneville and had invested her trust fund in the vineyard. Financially, she was stretched thin and having Rory’s fortune would have been handy. He’d gone out of his way to ensure Rory never found her.

David had lied to the Rangers. He had not only spoken to Rory last week on the phone but had also seen him. His brother had been clear-eyed, clean, and lucid. He’d said he’d joined AA and NA and had been substance-free for eight months. His little brother had been proud of his accomplishment and showed him his sobriety chips. Rory had returned to make amends with his family and Elizabeth. When he came into his inheritance, he planned to do good things with it.

Good things. That idiot didn’t have a clue how to handle that kind of money. And he’d feared Elizabeth would soon gain control of the fortune.

David had been furious. He’d told Rory to leave her be because she wanted his money and not him. But Rory had been unusually stubborn and sworn he’d drive out to Bonneville in the morning.

A soft knock on his study door had him straightening. “Enter.”

His wife, Deidra, was a tall, slim blonde. She wore a silk nightgown and though she wasn’t wearing make-up her skin looked like porcelain. “David. It’s late.”

“I know. I’ll be there soon.”

“I miss you.” They’d been married two years now and she’d gotten in the habit of pressing. He didn’t like it.

“Soon,” he said sharply.

Deidra pouted but said no more as she eased out of the room and closed the door behind her.

David swirled his drink, watching as the light caught the cut edges. A smile played on his lips. But ol’ Rory had never made it. And he’d ensure none of those fuck-ups from Shady Grove poisoned his future.

Bragg pushed away from Rory Edwards’s murder-scene photos, rose, and stretched. He’d been studying the pictures for hours and had not made any new discoveries. Winchester had visited Tate’s bar and had shown Rory’s picture around. The place had been crowded and loud and the bartender hadn’t seen Rory. If the killer had met him there, no one had noticed.

Wheeler had gotten more calls from the media. Instead of answering them, he’d forwarded them to Bragg. He’d fielded what he could, said as little as he could get away with, but interest over the death of an Edwards was growing.

He moved into the kitchen and poured coffee from the pot. It was cold so he put the mug in the microwave. As the seconds ticked off, he shrugged his shoulders, trying to work the kinks free. When the microwave dinged, he took his cup and sipped. Bitter.

Sipping his coffee, he sat on the couch, considered clicking on the television, but decided against it. He reached for his cell and scrolled to the picture he’d snapped of Greer. Not the old photo but one taken recently by Rory. Of all the ones taken of her he’d liked this one the best. She stood on the porch of her house staring out over her vineyard. The sun was setting and orange-yellow light illuminated her face. He’d chosen the picture because it was the only one that hadn’t caught her frowning. In this image she looked almost at peace. Bragg traced his finger over the line of her jaw. Looking at her made him hard, hungry, and wanting more than he could put into words.

He frowned when he thought of Rory taking the picture. He didn’t like the idea of the guy watching her, stalking her.

No way he could have gotten close and she’d not seen him. So where had he been? He conjured the image of the terrain around her ranch house. There’d been a hill at three o’clock. He’d had to have been there. And the photo had to have been taken with a telephoto lens.

There’d been no camera in Rory’s room. Where was the camera? Where had he gotten it? He shifted his attention from Greer to the background. Thunderclouds formed in the distance. Monday’s rain clouds hadn’t materialized and there’d been no dark clouds in the sky. The last hard rain that area had seen had been three weeks ago. Everyone had reported Rory had been in town only a week. Had they been wrong? Had he been here longer? Or had someone else taken the photos?

“Get the fuck out of there!”

Mitch’s strangled cry shot down the hallway like a bullet.

Bragg jumped off the couch and ran down the hallway to the kid’s room. Mitch lay on his back, shirtless, a sheet twisted around his midsection as he thrashed back and forth. “Get the fuck out of there!”

Bragg crossed the room in three strides and reached for the boy’s shoulder.

“Mitch! Wake up!” he commanded.

As quick as a rattler, Mitch balled up his fist, drew it back, and swung. It hit Bragg square in the jaw.

The Ranger wasn’t prepared for the blow, and the pain cut through him, making him ball his own fists as he staggered back. Anger rose up in him like an animal and his first instinct was to strike back hard. Heart racing in his chest, he took a step back until he could corral the fury.

“Mitch,” he shouted. “Wake up!”

The kid started awake and sat up in bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing was labored and quick. His wild gaze slowly cleared.

“Mitch.” The calmness in Bragg’s voice surprised him.

“Yeah.” He shoved his fingers over his short hair.

“Bad dream?”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed his knuckle over the tender skin on his jaw. “Want to talk about it?”

Mitch shook his head and lay back down. “No.”

“Want a glass of water or a soda?”

He rolled on his side away from Bragg. “No. Thanks.”

A heavy silence hung between them as Bragg searched for the right words. He couldn’t find one so he backed out of the room. He closed the door partway, leaving it cracked so that light from the hallway could seep inside.

Bragg hadn’t planned on attending Greer’s fund-raiser but knew now he would. And though he could tell himself his interests were for Mitch or the case, he’d be lying. He wanted her for himself.

“When is she going to wake up?”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said.

He stared through the small window at Sara lying on the floor of the freezer. He’d turned the temperature down low, but not so low that it would kill her before she woke.

“Can’t you wake her?”

“I want her to wake up on her own.”

“Why?” she challenged.

“Why are you so impatient?”

“We don’t have a lot of time. If you’re going to keep to the schedule, we have only five more days.”

Jackson traced Sara’s image on the glass. “She’ll wake up soon, and we’ll meet our schedule.”

“How can you be sure?”

He smiled. “Because I am.”

“What about the one after her? Have you laid the groundwork?”

He frowned. “Yes. I’ve prepped all the rest. And I will deal with each in their own time.”

Chapter Nine

Wednesday, June 4, 8 A.M.

Greer sat in her office going over the details for the fund-raiser she was hosting for the Crisis Center. She’d started at the center years ago answering phones during the late-night hours. She’d planned to simply answer phone calls. Stay on the fringe. But somewhere along the way she’d caught the attention of Dr. Stewart, who became chairman of the nonprofit’s board last year. Dr. Stewart had liked Greer and invited her to join the committee.

Greer had said no at first but Dr. Stewart wasn’t an easy man to refuse so she’d promised to help a little. Give Dr. Stewart an inch, and he’d charm you out of a mile.

Greer had found herself on the marketing committee and somehow had agreed to host a fund-raiser at Bonneville.

No sense worrying how she’d gotten sucked into this event. She was here and all she could do was make the best of it.

Tables. Chairs. Signs. Food. Wine, of course. Her checklist was complete. She was good at logistics. Ask her to arrange the field workers for harvest. Done. Coordinate Bonneville’s booth at the growers’ association meeting. Easy. Handle a truck, broken irrigation lines, or bug infestation. No sweat. But ask her to deal directly with people, and she was damn near a mess.

She’d not always been like this. Before the accident she could walk up to anyone and start a conversation. Her parents had held many business cocktail parties, and they expected Greer and Jeff to make an appearance. Ironically, it was Jeffrey who didn’t like the limelight and Greer who filled the conversation lulls with lively chatter and laughter.

The crunch of gravel under tires had her looking out her office window toward the main entrance. No one came or left the vineyard’s main entrance without her seeing. She didn’t like surprises. Too many lawyers and reporters had surprised her at her parents’ Austin home after the accident. Twelve years had softened the leeriness but not broken it.

A white four-door sedan drove up in a cloud of dust, parking in front of the main tasting room. She didn’t recognize the car and found herself tensing as she rose. She still hated surprises.

The driver’s-side door opened and a tall, slender woman dressed in soft pinks appeared. Dark sunglasses hid her face but Greer would have recognized the stiff-backed posture anywhere. Her mother.

Smoothing her fingers over her hair drawn back into a tight ponytail, she moved toward the front door. Though the urge to hide was strong, she refused. She’d made a promise to stop hiding from the world, and though she had her faults, she never broke a promise.

Greer pushed open the front door and found her mother studying the building with a critical eye. Mom had not been to the vineyard in well over a decade and the times they’d met had been at the family home in Austin or at Jeff’s grave. The vineyard had changed a good bit since then. Greer took pride that she’d been so much a part of the vineyard’s transformation.

“Mom,” Greer said. “This is a surprise.”

Glancing from side to side, Sylvia Templeton approached her daughter. Those who didn’t know Sylvia would describe her smile as bright, but Greer saw the frost. “How are you doing, Greer?”

She allowed her mother to wrap a stiff arm around her. “I’m fine. What brings you out here?”

Sylvia released her daughter and stepped back as if she didn’t like the physical contact. “Can’t I come and see my daughter?”

“Of course.” Already formality had hardened Greer’s tone. Before the accident her mother had not been the most approachable person, but after she’d all but ignored her second child. Hard disappointments had enabled Greer to build the wall between them brick by brick. “You’ve not been out here in over ten years, Mom.”

“Maybe it’s time, Elizabeth.”

The sound of her first name grated. “What do you want, Mom?”

Sylvia and Lydia had been sisters. Lydia was the younger of the two and from what little Greer had gathered Lydia had been the vivacious one. The outgoing one. The sisters had had a falling out long before Greer was born and had barely spoken over the next three decades. Family lore hinted Sylvia had stolen Lydia’s fiancé. Greer had always discounted the idea. She could never picture her father with her aunt. Once she’d asked her aunt, who’d not laughed at the absurd question. Instead, Lydia’s expression turned sad. Greer had never received a real answer.

Manicured fingers carefully brushed a stray hair from Sylvia’s eyes. “I can’t visit?”

“Of course you can.” She noticed the nail on her mother’s right index finger was chipped. Mom never chipped a nail. Ever. A small insignificant detail but it mattered. “Why now?”

Sylvia took a step back and surveyed the new tasting building. “You’ve made so many improvements out here.”

Avoidance. It was classic Sylvia. But Greer was curious enough about the visit to play along. “We completed the tasting room last fall. With Aunt Lydia so sick it was important to me it be finished before she died.”

“Our financial advisor called me when you cashed out your trust fund to invest in these buildings. I considered calling you then but decided you are old enough to make such decisions.”

“What’s the point of having the money if it’s not working for me?”

“You have no safety net now.”

“No.” She’d come to believe safety nets were an illusion. She’d had money and family behind her before the accident but neither had cushioned her fall. Money was nice, but it couldn’t protect you completely.

“You aren’t worried.”

“I’m not.” For a moment neither spoke as memories of the accident and Jeff danced between them like specters.

Sylvia’s lips flattened and she turned as if the distant horizon held great interest.

Greer didn’t push. Her mother was a hard woman but not unfeeling. Losing Jeff and then several years later her husband had devastated the woman. She couldn’t fully love Greer anymore but that didn’t mean she couldn’t love.

“I hear you are having a fund-raiser for the Crisis Center tonight.”

“You hear? From who?”

“David Edwards. He also told me about Rory and what happened.”

She straightened. “What did he tell you?”

“That Rory was dead.” She shook her head. “We don’t need to rehash the details.” She fingered the long pearl strand. “I think you’d avoid the public eye, especially now.”

“I did nothing wrong. I didn’t have any contact with Rory.” And still a tiny hint of guilt poked and prodded, asking, Could you have done more for him?

“That has little to do with public perception.”

It shouldn’t hurt that others judged her still. But it did. “I can’t control what people think, nor will I worry about it.”

“You should worry.”

“I stopped wondering what the David Edwardses of the world thought about me a long time ago.”

“Men like that can make your life hard, Elizabeth.”

“Greer. My name is Greer.”

Sylvia stood silent, the chipped manicured index finger wrapping and unwrapping around her strand of pearls. “Why are you doing this? Why must you bring up the past?”

Lydia’s dream would not survive if Greer couldn’t learn to deal with her fears of a more public life. “The Crisis Center is in real need of funds. I want to help.”

Her mother studied her. “If you hadn’t given all your money away, you could have written them a check.”

“I didn’t give it away. I invested it in the vineyard. And the Crisis Center needs the publicity as much as it does the money. It’s a way I can help and I am.”

Her mother shook her head. “You realize by helping a crisis center you will be raising questions about the past. I think you chose them on purpose. You want people to remember.”

Ah, here was the crux of the visit. Though a flip response begged to be spoken, she saw the truth in her mother’s words. She’d not only stopped running from the past but was running toward it head on. “I’m helping the Crisis Center with a need. I cannot help what people choose to think.”

“Of course you can, Elizabeth. You could have chosen a different charity. Animals. The environment. Cancer, for God’s sake. But you chose a center that helps people in crisis. People who have . . .”

The silence hurt more than an oath. After all this time, her mother couldn’t acknowledge the pain that drove Greer to such a desperate place. “People who have tried to kill themselves.”

Sylvia grimaced. “I don’t think it’s necessary to say it.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” She couldn’t summon anger or outrage. Her voice remained quiet and calm. “I tried to kill myself after the accident. I’m not proud of it, and I’m forever grateful you found me in time.”

Her mother raised her chin, which trembled just a little. “Don’t.”

Vague memories of her mother screaming for help echoed in her mind. “Thank you for saving me.”

Sylvia drew in a deep breath. “You’re being dramatic.”

Frustration welled inside her and she found herself getting irritated despite years of telling herself her mother’s opinion didn’t matter. “If I can help someone who is in a bad place and keep them from making the choice I did, then I guess it’s worth the risk of people dredging up the past.”

“You don’t care if the past gets unearthed? I would think you of all people would want to bury it deep.”

“It’s there regardless. Pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t change anything.”

Sylvia’s lips flattened. “When you dredge up the past, you fuel the gossips.”

Greer struggled with temper and a deep disappointment. “Are you worried about me or yourself ?”

Sylvia raised her chin. “Both of us.”

“You have no reason to feel ashamed, Mom. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Didn’t I?” For the first time in a long time raw pain flashed in her gaze. Tears glistened. “I am your mother. It is not easy for me to relive the past.”

“I’m not trying to relive it, Mom. I’m trying to learn from it.”

“What is there to be learned?”

“Forgiveness,” she whispered.

Green eyes flashed. “Mine or yours?”

“Maybe we both need to forgive each other.”

Her mother hesitated and then shook her head as if clamping her armor back in place. “Your actions are a direct reflection of me.”

Bitterness settled in the pit of Greer’s stomach. “So what you’re saying is forgiveness is impossible?”

She huffed her exasperation. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders as if trying to fend off unwanted weight. “I don’t need more gossip at the club.”

“You don’t want me to hold the fund-raiser because it could make some of your friends at the country club talk?”

“Is that so terrible? They’re all I have left.”

“You have me.”

Sylvia moistened dry lips. For a moment she didn’t speak and then she cleared her throat. “I plan to come to your fund-raiser.”

“Really?”

“I’m invited, aren’t I?”

Greer wrestled with the lump settling in her chest. As saddened as she was by this conversation a part of her wanted her mother to recognize what she’d accomplished. “Of course. I don’t control the invitation list. The board of directors does. It never occurred to me you’d want to support me.”

Sylvia arched a brow. “Don’t be smart.”

“I’m not being smart. I’m stating facts. You’ve not wanted any communication with me since the accident. Did we exchange five words at Aunt Lydia’s funeral?”

“I don’t do well at funerals.” She shook her head. “You are so much like Lydia. She was never happy with her life. Always wanted to strike out and make her own path. I cringe when I think of the mistakes she made.”

“What mistakes did she make?”

“I don’t want to discuss it.”

“Was loving Dad her mistake?”

Sylvia’s gaze turned icy. “Did she tell you that?”

This moment confirmed the stories about Lydia, her father, and mother were true. “No. She never said a word. All I know is she took me in after I left Shady Grove. She gave me a home and a purpose.”

“I often thought all this was to spite me. She could be willful and devious.”

Greer flexed her fingers. She’d done her best to keep her emotions in check but if they continued on this same path she’d regret what she was going to say. “You can trash me all you want, Mom, but don’t say a word against Lydia. Ever.” The sharp edge to her words had her mother straightening.

“Lydia was my sister.”

“I know. And you loved her. Like you loved me.” In the distance the black nag whinnied and swished her tail, drawing Greer’s attention away from her anger. “Thank you for coming, Mom, but I’ve a full day ahead of me. I have heard and understood your message. You are not happy with me. Again. But there is nothing I can do about it.” She smiled as well as any Austin debutante. “We’d love to have you at the event. You can get the tickets at the center. They cost a hundred dollars each but that includes a lovely afternoon here and all the wine you can drink.”

Her mother looked as if she’d say more but then thought better of it. She lowered into her car and drove away, leaving Greer standing there alone, fists clenched and more determined than ever to force herself back into the public eye.

An hour later, Greer was at her desk, trying to concentrate on a column of numbers that refused to add up. Her thoughts had been distracted by her mother’s visit and, of course, Rory. Mitch. Bragg. The list grew.

A white van drove up the driveway toward the tasting room. She pulled off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and shut off the computer screen, grateful to leave the accounts receivable behind for today. She stretched out the stiffness in her lower back and moved outside, grateful for the day’s warmth after so many hours inside. She wouldn’t love the heat in twenty minutes but for now it warmed her bones.

She walked up to the driver, smiling. Reggie was a stocky man with short dark hair shaded by a UT ball cap. They’d never worked together before but he’d come highly recommended by her neighbor, Philip Louis.

She held out her hand. “Reggie. Right on time.”

“I hear you’re hosting a party.” His handshake was strong.

She cupped her hand over her eyes, shielding them from the bright sun. Another man climbed out of the front of the cab. He was younger, Hispanic and short. Like Reggie he wore the REGGIE’S CATERING shirt and khakis though his tennis shoes looked far more careworn. “We are. We’re hosting a fund-raiser for the Crisis Center.”

Reggie glanced around the building, his gaze appreciative. “I heard you were building out here.”

“You heard?”

“From your neighbor, Mr. Louis.” He jabbed his thumb up toward the house on the hill. “He keeps a close eye on all the changes at Bonneville.”