Читать книгу Once a Family - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

HE’D NEVER BEEN to the house, but Tanner knew right where it was. Behind the massive wrought-iron gate that might intimidate some.

But not him.

Stopping in front of the entrance, he searched for an admittance button. Had to get out of his truck to push it. And waited for a response.

“Tanner Malone here to see Del Harcourt,” he told the female voice on the other end of the speaker.

“Tanner? Tatum’s brother?” The female on the other end sounded delighted—and surprised.

“Yes.”

A click sounded, followed by whirring as the gates opened from the middle. “Come on in, Mr. Malone,” the woman said.

Hopping in his truck, Tanner did just that. Whether the voice on the other end belonged to a lenient housekeeper or a family member, he didn’t know.

And frankly, he didn’t care. He was on a mission.

The front door opened as Tanner pulled around the fountain in the driveway and parked in what would have been, at a hotel, valet parking: a triple-wide, paved area, beautifully landscaped with colorful blooms even in midMarch—completely unlike the single-lane dirt path that circled in front of his house.

“Mr. Malone?” A slender, blonde woman in her late thirties, dressed expensively in pants made from the same type of silken fabric Tatum had picked out for her honor society induction the previous month, came down the steps toward him, her hand outstretched.

He noticed her nails were painted red. Tatum wouldn’t wear red. She said it was for old ladies.

“I’m Callie Harcourt,” the woman said. Del’s mom. “Please come in. I’ve been anxious to meet you, but every time I asked, Tatum said you were working. You’re a very busy man.”

Any invitations to this home were news to him. “I’m a farmer,” he said, which, to him, explained everything. “But I usually make time to attend Tatum’s functions,” he added. He wasn’t perfect. But he tried.

“We’ve had a couple of barbecues,” the woman said, ushering him into a bright hallway with cathedral ceilings before leading the way to a great room with tile floors and voluptuous plush beige furniture that looked as if a guy could relax back into it and drink a beer if he had a mind to.

The art on the walls and various tables reminded him of some of the pieces out in his barn. Except these were in exquisite condition, hardly resembling his dusty and scarred versions.

“Tatum says you’re in the old Beacham place,” Callie Malone said, crossing over to what appeared to be a wet bar on the far side of the room.

“That’s right.” Tanner stood his ground about midroom. Ready to take on whatever came his way over the next few minutes.

He wasn’t made of money, but he was as powerful as the next guy when it came to protecting his own.

Callie stood with one arm on the bar. “The Beachams were friends of my parents. I can remember attending summer parties there as a kid. Those barns were fascinating.”

“I’m told they raised horses.”

“Arabians.” Callie nodded. “So sad, the way he died. She just let the place fall into disrepair after that. I’m told she’s in a home someplace up north.”

As Tanner understood it, Walter Beacham had died at the hands of a drunk driver. And his wife had given up on life. They’d never had any children. She had no other family to help out.

Tanner had picked up the property when it went into foreclosure. Just happened to get a bid in during the fifteen-day period that had been restricted to owner-occupied bids before the place was offered to investors.

That had been eight years ago and he and Tatum had been occupying it ever since.

Another two years and his vineyards would finally start to show enough profit for them to start fixing up the property the way he’d envisioned when he’d first seen it.

And his winery would stand in place of those old barns....

“Can I get you a drink?” Callie asked, stepping behind the bar. “Whiskey? Or some wine?”

“No, thank you,” he said. Alcohol was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

And other than wine, he didn’t drink, anyway. None of the Malone children did.

“I’ve come for my sister,” he said now. “It’s time for dinner and she has homework to finish before school tomorrow.”

They could do this the easy way. If everyone cooperated.

Tanner realized that it was possible the Harcourt adults didn’t know that Del had been warned to stay away from Tanner’s little sister. Didn’t know that their son was not only dealing and doing drugs, but was trying to pressure Tatum into doing the same. And into sleeping with him, too.

Callie’s frown was his first warning that things weren’t going to be easy. “Tatum? But...she’s not here, Mr. Malone―”

“The name’s Tanner,” he interrupted, more curtly than was called for. If the Harcourts thought their friends in high places were going to intimidate him—as Del had asserted when Tanner had thrown the punk out of his house two days before—if they thought their money was going to make it possible for them to take his sister away from him, they had another think coming.

He’d been raising Tatum on his own for ten years. He wasn’t about to lose her now. Another three years and they’d be there. Just three more years. She’d be eighteen. Legal age of consent.

Then he could set her free—a healthy, well-adjusted, well-educated adult Malone.

A well-loved Malone.

He swallowed. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mrs. Harcourt,” he started again, his hands at his sides as he stood tall and straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t do anything about the stained jeans he’d had on in the vineyard all day, or the equally stained button-up white-and-blue-striped shirt turned up at the cuffs. “But I assume your son is at home?”

Tatum had rattled on and on about the perfect Harcourt home, the normal, perfect family Del had. Including the way they ate dinner together every night, at the same time, with no television on. Just Del and his parents, talking about their day....

“Yes, Del’s upstairs doing his homework,” Callie said, coming out from behind the bar, her pretty, perfectly made-up features marred with a frown.

Looking at the woman he saw more of his little sister than he liked. It was as though Tatum was modeling herself after this woman. As if he was not only dealing with puppy love, but a case of heroine worship thrown in, as well.

Distracted for a second at the realization, he wasn’t about to let on.

“Can you call him down here, please?” he asked, as though he was the president of the United States addressing Congress.

“Of course.”

The soft click of Callie’s pumps on the shiny wood floor as she left the room was followed by her voice in the distance, calling for her son.

Tanner waited for the second call. For the sound of the woman’s footsteps on the stairs as she made a climb similar to the one Tanner had made a mere half hour before. Waited for her to realize that her son wasn’t home, either. The punk had taken Tanner’s youngest sister someplace and he wanted her back.

“Yeah?” The male voice that sounded at the top of the stairs held none of the respect Tanner had heard two mornings before when the asshole had tried to convince him that he loved his sister and would never do anything to hurt her. It was Del. He recognized the voice. Not the tone.

It was as if the kid was speaking to someone beneath him. A servant.

Or a woman?

“I’d like you to come down, please.”

“I’m busy.”

Did he talk to Tatum that way, too?

“Del, do I have to call your father?”

A door slammed. Tanner heard tennis shoes on the stairs. “I’m here, now what?”

“Come into the living room, please.” Callie’s voice lowered, as though she didn’t want Tanner to hear what she was saying. Or how she was saying it?

“What for?”

Just then another door opened, somewhere deeper in the house. “Your father’s home.” Callie’s voice took on strength.

And before anything else could happen, Del, dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a surfer shirt and expensive-looking rubber-soled sports shoes, entered the room.

“Mr. Malone? What are you doing here?” The boy’s tone of voice changed again. Back to two mornings before. Like the asshole didn’t know Tanner had heard him addressing his mother?

“He’s looking for Tatum, Del. Do you know where she is?”

“No.” The boy’s chin lifted.

“I don’t believe you.” Tanner didn’t bother with niceties.

Callie glanced from Tanner to her son. “Del? Do you know something you aren’t telling us?”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is,” Del insisted. Shrugging his shoulders he shoved his hands in his pockets, the blue ends of his blond hair giving him an air of otherworldliness that set Tanner’s already stressed nerve endings on edge.

“Where who is?” The quiet, deep voice belonged to the tall guy in the suit who just entered the room.

“Mr. Harcourt?” Tanner assumed the financier’s identity.

“That’s right.”

“I’m looking for my sister. I have good reason to believe that your son knows where she is. She’s only fifteen, it’s a school night and she belongs at home.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance.” Stepping past his son as though the boy didn’t exist, Harcourt glanced at his wife.

“This is Tanner Malone, Kenny. Tatum’s brother.”

“Tatum’s missing?” The concern on the other man’s face appeared genuine as he swung toward his son. “What do you know about this, Del?” The voice was still low, but with a growling note. “If you know where that girl is, you tell us. Now.” Harcourt was almost gritting his teeth.

Del shrugged again, but his head bowed a bit as he looked at his mother. “Mom, I’m telling you, I don’t know where she is.”

Harcourt’s hand snapped out and formed a vise around his son’s arm, squeezing with obvious force. “I’m warning you, son, if you’re hiding something...”

The threat was left unsaid, but Del seemed to hear it loud and clear.

“I don’t know where she is.” Del looked his father in the eye, but backed half a step away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.

Something was going on there. Something bad. Unhealthy.

But Tanner didn’t have the time or wherewithal to care. If Tatum’s friends didn’t know where she was...and Del didn’t have her...then...

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Tanner asked, holding his teeth together to keep himself calm. To prevent the panic that was raging inside him from taking control.

“She’s not allowed to speak to me, remember? You said you’d take her cell phone away if she did.”

In unison, the elder Harcourts looked at each other, then at their son.

“What about on the internet?” Callie asked.

“Answer your mother,” Harcourt demanded, more loudly than his wife, before Del even had a chance to respond.

Del stared at the floor. Harcourt grabbed his son’s arm a second time. “Delaney?”

“She private messaged me on Facebook this morning.”

“And?”

“I don’t know.” The boy, pulling out of his father’s grip, backed up. “I didn’t answer her, okay? I knew he’d be watching.” He practically spit the word he’d as he looked at Tanner.

“What did she say?” Tanner asked, still the calmest one in the room. If you didn’t count the frustration—the fear—raging inside him.

“I can’t remember...” Del’s reply ended abruptly as his father took a step forward. “She said that she loved me.”

“And?”

“And, nothing.”

Harcourt slapped the back of his kid’s head. Not enough to be considered violent or even cause Del’s neck to snap back, but harder than a love tap.

Instead of cowing the boy, the slap seemed to have the opposite effect. Del straightened. He looked at all three adults in the room and said, “She told me she loved me. That’s all.” His tone told them he’d take any beating they wanted to hand out but they weren’t going to get another answer from him.

Because it was the truth?

Or because the punk was that determined to have Tatum all for himself?

So he could knock his little sister around like his father did him?

Looking at Callie Harcourt, Tanner wondered where she played into the “normal” Harcourt household. Did her husband intimidate her, too? With a little physical persuasion now and then?

Or did they both just think that rough parenting was the only way to keep their far too rich and spoiled brat in line?

If it was the latter, Tanner wasn’t sure he faulted them. He was sure he wasn’t going to get any closer to Tatum in that living room right then.

“I’m going to the police,” he stated unequivocally to the room at large. “If you have anything to do with this, Del, you will pay.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Save it,” Harcourt said to his son, walking behind Tanner to the vestibule. “If the boy knows something, I’ll get it out of him.”

Even though he could guess what Harcourt’s tactics would probably be, Tanner wasn’t altogether sorry to hear it. “I’m sure the police will want to talk to him.”

“We’ll be here all night.”

Asking Tanner to keep them posted, the Harcourts showed him out.

Tanner, already on his cell with 9-1-1, barely noticed.