Читать книгу Colton by Marriage - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 10

The moment he’d realized that this time Boyd Arnold’s discovery wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, Wes had firmly sworn Boyd to secrecy. Knowing that Boyd had a tendency to run off at the mouth, words flowing as freely as the creek did in the winter after the first big snowstorm, he’d been forced to threaten the small-time rancher with jail time if he so much as breathed a word to anyone.

Boyd had appeared to be properly forewarned, his demeanor unusually solemn.

As for him, despite the fact that the words kept insisting on bubbling up in his throat and on his tongue, desperate for release, Wes hadn’t even shared the news with his family. Not yet. He couldn’t. He needed to be absolutely sure that the man with the partially destroyed face—he supposed the fish in the creek had to survive, too—actually was Mark Walsh.

There would be nothing more embarrassing, not to mention that it would also undermine the capabilities of the office of the sheriff, than to have to take back an announcement of this magnitude. After all, Mark Walsh had already been presumed murdered once and his supposed killer had been tried and sentenced. To say, “Oops, we were wrong once, but he’s really dead now,” wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

His reasons for keeping this under wraps were all valid. But that didn’t make keeping the secret to himself any easier for Wes. However, he had no choice. Until the county coroner completed his autopsy and managed to match Mark Walsh’s dental records with the body that had been fished out of the creek, Wes fully intended to keep a tight lid on the news, no matter how difficult it got for him. Why dental records weren’t used properly to identify the victim of the first crime was anybody’s guess.

With any luck, he wouldn’t have to hold his tongue for much longer. He desperately wanted to start the wheels turning for Damien’s release. If the body in the morgue was Mark Walsh, then there was no way his older brother had killed the man over fifteen years ago. Not that he, or any of the family, including seven brothers and sisters, had ever believed that Damien was guilty. Some of the Colton men might have hot tempers, but none of them would ever commit murder. He’d stake not just his reputation but his life on that.

Damien was going to be a free man—once all that life-suffocating red tape was gotten through.

Damn, he thought, finally.

Deep down in his soul, he’d always known Damien hadn’t killed Mark. Been as sure of it as he was that the sun was going to rise in the east tomorrow morning.

He supposed that was one of the reasons he’d run for sheriff, to look into the case, to wade through the files that dealt with the murder and see if there was anything that could be used to reopen the case.

Now he didn’t have to, he thought with a satisfied smile.

And he owed it all to Boyd, at least in a way. Granted, the body would have been there no matter what, but Boyd was the one who’d led him to it.

Who knew, if Boyd hadn’t decided to sneak off and go duck-hunting—something that was not in season—maybe the fish would have eventually feasted on the rest of Walsh, doing away with the body and effectively annihilating any evidence that would have pointed toward Damien’s innocence.

In that case, Damien would have stayed in prison, sinking deeper and deeper into that dark abyss where he’d taken up residence ever since the guilty verdict had been delivered fifteen years ago.

Wes made a mental note to call the county coroner’s office later this afternoon to see how the autopsy was coming along—and give the man a nudge if he was dragging his heels. Max Crawford was the only coroner in these parts, but it wasn’t as if the doctor was exactly drowning in bodies. Homicide was not a regular occurrence around here.

Smiling broadly, Wes poured himself his second cup of coffee of the morning. He was anxious to set his older brother’s mind—if not his body—free. The sooner he told Damien about the discovery at Honey Creek, the sooner Damien would have hope and could begin walking the path that would lead him back home.

That had a nice ring to it, Wes thought, heading back to his desk. A really nice ring.

Miranda James had been an only child with no family. Her mother, Beth, had died two years ago, ironically from the same cancer that had claimed Miranda—and her father had taken off for parts unknown less than a week after Miranda was born, declaring he didn’t have what it took to be a father. Because there was no one else to do it, Susan had taken upon herself all the funeral arrangements.

Bonnie Gene had offered to help, but one look at her daughter’s determined face told the five foot-six, striking woman that this was something that Susan needed to do herself. Respectful of Susan’s feelings, Bonnie Gene had backed away, saying only that if Susan needed her, she knew where to find her.

Susan was rather surprised at this turn of events, since her mother was such a take-charge person, but she was relieved that Bonnie Gene had backed off. It was almost cathartic to handle everything herself. Granted, it wasn’t easy, juggling her full-time work schedule and the myriad of details that went into organizing the service and the actual burial at the cemetery, but she wasn’t looking for easy. Susan was looking for right. She wanted to do right by her best friend.

Wanted, if Miranda could look down from heaven, to have her friend smile at the way the ceremony had come together to honor her all-too-brief life.

So, three days after she’d sunk down on the bench outside the hospital, crying and trying to come to grips with the devastating loss of her best friend, Susan was standing at Miranda’s graveside, listening to the soft-voiced, balding minister saying words that echoed her own feelings: that the good were taken all too quickly from this life, leaving a huge hole that proved to be very difficult to fill.

Only half listening now, Susan ached all over, both inside and out. In the last three days, she’d hardly gotten more than a few hours sleep each night, but she had not only the satisfaction of having made all the funeral arrangements but also of not dropping the ball when it came to the catering end of the family business.

As far as the latter went, her mother had been a little more insistent that she either accept help or back off altogether, but Susan had remained firm. Eventually, it had been Bonnie Gene who had backed off. When she had, there’d been a proud look in her light-brown eyes.

Having her mother proud of her meant the world to Susan. Especially right now.

Susan looked around at the mourners who filled the cemetery. It was, she thought, a nice turnout. All of Miranda’s friends were here, including mutual friends, like Mary Walsh. And, not only Susan’s parents, Donald and Bonnie Gene, but her four sisters and her brother had come to both the church service and the graveside ceremony.

They’d all come to pay their respects and to mourn the loss of someone so young, so vital. If she were being honest with herself, Susan was just a little surprised that so many people had actually turned up. Surprised and very pleased.

See how many people liked you, Miranda? she asked silently, looking down at the highly polished casket. Bet you didn’t know there were this many.

Susan glanced around again as the winches and pulleys that had lowered the casket into the grave were released by the men from the funeral parlor. At the last moment, she didn’t want to dwell on the sight of the casket being buried. She preferred thinking of Miranda lying quietly asleep in the casket the way she had viewed her friend the night before at the wake.

That way—

Susan’s thoughts abruptly melted away as she watched the tall, lean rancher make his way toward her. Or maybe he was making his way toward the cemetery entrance in order to leave.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Susan moved directly into Duke’s path just before he passed her parents and her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

It was a sunny day, and it was probably his imagination, but the sun seemed to be focusing on Susan’s hair, making some of the strands appear almost golden. Duke cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind just as easily.

Duke minced no words. He’d never learned how. “Same as you. Paying my last respects to someone who apparently meant a great deal to you. I figure she had to be a really nice person for you to cry as much as you did when she died.”

Susan took a deep, fortifying breath before answering him.

“She was,” she replied. “A very nice person.” She watched as the minister withdrew and the crowd began to thin out. The mourners had all been invited to her parents’ house for a reception. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Duke thought of his twin brother, of Damien spending the best part of his life behind bars for a crime he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt his brother hadn’t committed. They were connected, he and Damien. Connected in such a way that made him certain that if Damien had killed Walsh the way everyone said, he would have known. He would have felt it somehow.

But he hadn’t.

And that meant that Damien hadn’t killed anyone. Damien was innocent, and, after all this time, Duke still hadn’t come up with a way to prove it. It ate at him.

“Nobody ever said life was fair,” he told her in a stoic voice.

Susan didn’t have the opportunity to comment on his response. Her mother had suddenly decided to swoop down on them. More specifically, on Duke.

“Duke Colton, what a lovely surprise,” Bonnie Gene declared, slipping her arm through the rancher’s. “So nice of you to come. Such a shame about poor Miranda.” The next moment, she brightened and flashed her thousand-watt smile at him. “You are coming to the reception, aren’t you?” she asked as if it was a given, not a question.

Duke had had no intentions of coming to the reception. He still wasn’t sure what had prompted him to come to the funeral in the first place. Maybe it had been the expression he’d seen on Susan’s face. Maybe, by being here, he’d thought to ease her burden just a little. He really didn’t know.

He’d slipped into the last pew in the church, left before the mourners had begun to file out and had stood apart, watching the ceremony at the graveside. Had there been another way out of the cemetery, he would have used that and slipped out as quietly as he had come in.

Just his luck to have bumped into Susan and her family. Especially her mother, who had the gift of gab and seemed intent on sharing that gift with every living human being with ears who crossed her path.

He cleared his throat again, stalling and looking for the right words. “Well, I—”

He got no further than that.

Sensing a negative answer coming, Bonnie Gene headed it off at the pass as only she could: with verve and charm. And fast talk.

“But of course you’re coming. My Donald oversaw most of the preparations.” She glanced toward her husband, giving him an approving nod. “As a matter of fact, he insisted on it, didn’t you, dear?” she asked, turning her smile on her husband as if that was the way to draw out a hint of confirmation from him.

“I—”

Donald Kelley only managed to get out one word less than Duke before Bonnie Gene hijacked the conversation again.

Because of the solemnity of the occasion, Bonnie Gene was wearing her shoulder-length dark-brown hair up. She still retained the deep, rich color without the aid of any enhancements that came out of a box and required rubber gloves and a timer, and she looked approximately fifteen years younger than the sixty-four years that her birth certificate testified she was—and she knew it. Retirement and quilting bees were not even remotely in her future.

Turning her face up to Duke’s—separated by a distance of mere inches, she all but purred, “You see why you have to come, don’t you, Duke?”

It was as clear as mud to him. “Well, ma’am—not really.” Duke made the disclaimer quickly before the woman could shut him down again.

The smile on her lips was gently indulgent as she momentarily directed her attention to her husband. “Donald is his own number-one fan when it comes to his cooking. He’s prepared enough food to feed three armies today,” she confided, “and whatever the guests don’t eat, he will.” Detaching herself from Duke for a second, she patted her husband’s protruding abdomen affectionately. “I don’t want my man getting any bigger than he already is.”

Dropping her hand before Donald had a chance to swat it away, she reattached herself to Duke. “So the more people who attend the reception, the better for my husband’s health.” Bonnie Gene paused, confident that she had won. It was only for form’s sake—she knew men liked to feel in control—that she pressed. “You will come, won’t you?”

It surprised her that the man seemed to stubbornly hold his ground. “I really—”

She sublimated a frown, keeping her beguiling smile in place. Bonnie Gene was determined that Duke wasn’t going to turn her down. She was convinced she’d seen something in the rancher’s eyes in that unguarded moment when she’d caught him looking at her daughter.

Moreover, she’d seen the way Susan came to attention the moment her daughter saw Duke approaching. If that wasn’t attraction, then she surely didn’t know the meaning of the word.

And if there was attraction between her daughter and this stoic hunk of a man, well, that certainly was good enough for her. This could be the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. Time had a way of flying by and Susan was already twenty-five.

Bonnie Gene was nothing if not an enthusiastic supporter of her children, especially if she saw a chance to dust off her matchmaking skills.

“Oh, I know what the problem is,” she declared, as if she’d suddenly been the recipient of tongues of fire and all the world’s knowledge had been laid at her feet. “You’re not sure of the way to our place.” She turned to look at her daughter as if she had just now thought of the idea. “Susan, ride back with Duke so you can give him proper directions.”

Looking over her youngest daughter’s head, she saw that Linc was heading in their direction and his eyes appeared to be focused on Duke.

Fairly certain that Susan wouldn’t welcome the interaction with her overbearing friend right now, Bonnie Gene reacted accordingly. Slipping her arms from around Duke’s, she all but thrust Susan into the space she’d vacated.

“Off with you now,” Bonnie Gene instructed, putting a hand to both of their backs and pushing them toward the exit. “Don’t worry, your father and I will be right behind you,” she called out.

Without thinking, Susan went on holding Duke’s arm until they left the cemetery.

He made no move to uncouple himself and when she voluntarily withdrew her hold on him, he found that he rather missed the physical connection.

“I’m sorry about that,” Susan apologized, falling into step beside him.

He assumed she was apologizing for her mother since there was nothing else he could think of that required an apology.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he replied. “Your mother was just being helpful.”

Susan laughed. She had no idea that the straightforward rancher could be so polite. She didn’t think he had it in him.

Learn something every day.

“No, she was just being Bonnie Gene. If you’re not careful, Mother can railroad you into doing all sorts of things and make you believe it was your idea to begin with.” There was a fondness in her voice as she described her mother’s flaw. “She thinks it’s her duty to take charge of everything and everyone around her. If she’d lived a hundred and fifty years ago, she would have probably made a fantastic Civil War general.”

Duke inclined his head as they continued walking. “Your mother’s a fine woman.”

“No argument there. But my point is,” Susan emphasized, “you have to act fast to get away if you don’t want to get shanghaied into doing whatever it is she has planned.”

“Eating something your dad’s made doesn’t exactly sound like a hardship to me.” Donald Kelley’s reputation as a chef was known throughout the state, not just the town.

Susan didn’t want Duke to be disappointed. “Actually, I made a lot of it.”

His eyes met hers for a brief moment. She couldn’t for the life of her fathom what he was thinking. The man had to be a stunning poker player. “Doesn’t sound bad, either.”

The simple compliment, delivered without any fanfare, had Susan warming inside and struggling to tamp down what she felt had to be a creeping blush on the outside. Pressing her lips together, she murmured, “Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Don’t plan on being,” he told her. Duke nodded toward the vehicle he’d left parked at the end of the lot. “Hope you don’t mind riding in a truck, seeing as how you’re probably used to gallivanting around in those fancy cars.”

When it came down to matching dollar for dollar, the Coltons were probably richer than the Kelleys, but despite his distant ties to the present sitting president, Joseph Colton, Darius Colton didn’t believe in throwing money away for show. That included buying fancy cars for his sons.

Duke was referring to Linc’s sports car, Susan thought. He had to be because her own car was a rather bland sedan with more than a few miles and years on it. But it was a reliable vehicle that got her where she had to go and that was all that ultimately mattered to her.

“I like trucks,” she told him, looking at his. “They’re dependable.”

In response, Susan thought she saw a small smile flirt with Duke’s mouth before disappearing again. And then he shrugged a bit self-consciously.

“If I’d known I’d be heading out to your place, I would’ve washed it first,” he told her.

“Dirt’s just a sign left behind by hard work,” she said philosophically as she approached the passenger side of the vehicle.

Duke opened the door for her, then helped her up into the cab. She was acutely aware of his hands on her waist, giving her a small boost so that she could avoid any embarrassing mishap, given that she was wearing a black dress and high heels.

A tingle danced through her.

This wasn’t the time or place to feel things like that, she chided herself. She’d just buried her best friend. This was a time for mourning, not for reacting to the touch of a man who most likely wasn’t even aware that he had touched her.

Duke caught himself staring for a second. Staring at the neat little rear that Susan Kelley had. Funerals weren’t the time and cemeteries weren’t the place to entertain the kind of thoughts that were now going through his head.

But there they were anyway, taking up space, coloring the situation.

Maybe, despite the best of intentions, he shouldn’t have shown up at the funeral, he silently told himself.

Too late now, Duke thought as he got into the driver’s seat and started up the truck. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to stay long at the reception.