“Maybe he was life-flighted somewhere else.” Virginia’s voice quavered and Max silently cursed his brother again.
“Why did he leave?” Max asked as he propped the receiver between his shoulder and ear and began measuring coffee into the maker. Hell, what was Jenner up to now?
“He...he got into an argument with me. And Mavis.”
“With Grandma?” That surprised Max. Jenner and the old woman had always been close. “Why?”
There was a hesitation on the other end, and Max experienced the first hazy sensation that there was more going on than Virginia was willing to say.
“Why’d he leave?” he repeated.
“You...you’ll have to ask him. He just lost his temper—you know what a short fuse he has—and stormed out, claimed he might not be back. I’m afraid... well, I’m afraid he’s gone for good.”
“Gone where?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be calling you now, would I?” she snapped, then, as if hearing the anger in her tone, let out a long worried sigh. “I just don’t know what to do. He... he said something about going back to his apartment.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Tell him. I tried to call, but the phone was disconnected, and I couldn’t imagine him negotiating the stairs to the second floor. I did leave a message on Skye’s answering machine. Oh, Lord, Max, what if he had an accident and he’s trapped in his truck. Or...or what if it wasn’t an accident? Your father was forced off the road and the same thing could have happened to Jenner. Oh, God, Max—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” Max cut in before Virginia’s fertile imagination had Jenner murdered by the same madman who supposedly had killed Jonah and started the blaze in the stables. “Go to bed. Get some sleep.” He hung up knowing she was about to break down into a crying jag and he felt rotten inside. His mother had always been a pillar of strength. For years, she’d held her head high, pretending she hadn’t known about Jonah’s reckless affairs or his. shady business practices. She’d been his partner for life and had supported him throughout every ordeal, ignoring the calls from women, refusing to believe that the civil lawsuits against him and his company were anything more than sour grapes. Loyal should have been her middle name.
Within fifteen minutes, Max had showered, shaved, dressed and poured himself a cup of coffee. He shook some dry dog food into a dish for Atlas, who greeted him by jumping and barking and leaving dusty pawprints on his jeans.
“Slow down. Eat some breakfast,” Max insisted, but the pup ignored his full dish and loped after him to the garage where his pickup was parked. Atlas hopped into the cab of the truck and Max didn’t have the heart to shove him out. “Just this once,” he said as he backed out and drove along the tree-lined lane leading to the edge of the McKee property and the county road.
He turned on the radio, listened to the sports scores and then a report that predicted cooler weather, but his mind was on his stubborn brother. It seemed that Jenner, born restless, had developed a bad case of impatience since nearly being killed in the fire.
Not that Max really blamed him. Though Jenner had improved to the point where he could walk with crutches, the outlook wasn’t all that great. Most of Jenner’s doctors had confided to Skye that Jenner would probably always walk with a limp, maybe even be forced to use a cane, and that his passion for riding wild rodeo broncs and Brahman bulls was now a pipe dream.
Jenner didn’t have to work, of course. He owned about three hundred acres, and if that wasn’t enough, there was plenty of money in the old man’s estate to go around. Since Max was not only a lawyer but the executor, he could find a way to set up a trust fund for Jenner so that he would be comfortable for life. But he doubted that Jenner would accept the money. Ever since the fire, Jenner had been hell-bent not to accept charity or pity or anything that hinted at compassion for his plight.
“Idiot,” Max growled as he pushed the speed limit. By the time he reached the outskirts of Rimrock, the streetlights had turned off and morning sunlight chased away a tiny hint of fog that lingered near the river. Max barreled over to the rooming house that Skye owned and felt a good measure of relief when he spied his brother’s pickup, dent free, parked at the curb in front of the house. Leaving a whining Atlas in the cab, he wondered what the hell Jenner thought he was doing. He opened the front door with his key, climbed up the flight of stairs to the second-floor landing and banged on the door of Jenner’s apartment.
There was no answer, but Max wasn’t simply going to go away. He didn’t care if Jenner was drunk, hung over or just plain dog tired. His brother had a lot of explaining to do. “Open up!” he yelled between bangs.
A door near the staircase opened and Mrs. Newby, in chenille robe and nightcap peered through the crack. “He’s not in there,” she said with the authority of a busybody used to checking up on her neighbors.
Max hooked his thumb toward the front door. “His truck is parked outside.”
“He’s in the basement.”
“But it’s not finished.”
“I know,” Mrs. Newby said, warming to her subject. “And I told Tina she was making a mistake by letting him stay down there, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer and Tina, well, she just about melts every time she sees him. Sweet on him, she is and so... he ended up in the basement.”
Max was already halfway down the stairs.
“When you see Skye,” Mrs. Newby called after him, “would you be a dear and remind her about the security system I want installed?”
Max waved and hurried through the front door. In all his life he’d never been nor would he ever become anything closely resembling “a dear.”
He took the outside steps two at a time and, once he was at the bottom of the stairwell, pounded on the door. It opened immediately and Jenner stood blocking the entry. Hair uncombed, jaw dark with stubble, shoulders hunched defensively as if he’d expected this fight, he balanced on his crutches.
“Don’t tell me,” Jenner growled with a sarcastic bite, “you’ve missed me.”
“Mom’s worried.”
“I told her I wouldn’t be home.”
Max pushed past his bullheaded brother and into the unfinished room. His hands curled into fists of frustration. “She was up half the night worried sick. You know, Jenner, she doesn’t need any more grief from you. She’s got enough problems dealing with Dad’s death and the murder investigation.”
“Did she tell you why I left?”
“We didn’t get into that.”
Jenner’s blue eyes sparked. “I didn’t think so.”
Max was suddenly wary. He sensed that something wasn’t quite as it seemed. Just as he had during the telephone conversation with his mother. “Okay, I give up. Why did you drive off in one of your black rages?”
Jenner slammed the door shut. “Because I can’t stand being a hypocrite for starters and I don’t like anyone waiting on me hand and foot, watching my every move, hovering over me like a mother hen.”
“She is a mother hen and you’re supposed to be recuperating. Doctor’s orders. ‘No straining yourself, plenty of rest, exercise with a physical therapist, and—”’
“—and it’s all a bunch of bull. You know it and I know it. The doctors aren’t being straight with me. They don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”
“No one really knows. A lot depends on you.”
“More bull!” He glowered at his crutches. “Anyway, I’ve decided to recuperate on my own.” Scowling fiercely, he rubbed his chin, and lines formed across his forehead as if he was thinking hard. Muttering a curse under his breath, he finally looked back at Max. “I don’t suppose Mom told you what went on at the ranch last night.”
“Just that you took off in some kind of blind rage.”
“But not why.”
Max couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t think you needed a reason.”
“I didn’t. But I had one. A helluva reason,” Jenner admitted. He hobbled over to the other side
of the room where a hot plate, balanced on an old television tray, was plugged into the wall. An enamel coffeepot was warming on one of the burners, and the scent of brewing coffee overpowered the combined odors of Sheetrock, dust and varnish. Jenner found two chipped mugs, poured coffee, and motioned for Max to help himself. As they drank the bitter brew, Jenner settled into a folding chair and told Max some wild tale about Harriet Forrester’s daughter, Beth Crandall, and Beth’s contention that she’d borne Jenner a son. He also mentioned that somehow good ol’ Jonah had found out about the kid, hushed it up, and managed to keep Beth from telling Jenner about the boy. Jenner didn’t have all the details, but he was convinced that Mavis was behind Beth returning. What he didn’t seem sure of was the paternity of the kid.
“... so the damned thing of it is, I don’t really remember her, and believe me, she’s a woman no one would forget in a hurry.”
Max swirled the dregs of his coffee in thought. The story was incredible, but there was enough truth sprinkled into it to keep a person guessing. Max knew from personal experience that Jonah McKee was capable of manipulating his children’s lives. Hadn’t he forced Skye out of Rimrock years ago? Recently Max had gotten back with the woman he loved, and he and Skye were planning to marry in early December. Still, Beth Crandall’s story seemed too pat. “You still think she’s trying to scam you?”
“Don’t know,” Jenner admitted, his gaze clouding, “but if she is, she’s good...damned good.”
“You’re buying into it and you don’t even remember being with her?” Actually, Max liked the idea of Jenner being a father; it didn’t even really matter if he’d sired the boy or not. Jenner needed some roots to tie him down, a reason to keep on living, and a kid would be just the ticket. Considering Jenner’s accident, Max had some concern about his brother’s ability to father children in the future, though no one had said anything aloud.
Max was lucky enough to have a five-year-old daughter from his first marriage. Hillary with her stubborn jaw and thick curls, was precocious, bullheaded and as cute as a bug’s ear. He loved her more than he’d ever thought possible. Jenner could use a little of the joy and heartache that comes with being a parent. The feeling was like none other on earth. Since Skye would be unable to bear him any children, Max understood how precious each and every child was.
“I’m not buying into it,” Jenner protested. “I’m just not sure. But I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“How?” Max asked, setting his cup on the floor. “Are you going to go through blood tests? You know that would mean spending time at the hospital again—something you’ve stubbornly avoided.”
Jenner snorted. “Before having any tests, I think I’ll talk to our old friend, Rex Stone—see what he thinks.”
“You’re going to hire a private investigator to check her out?”
“Seems the logical thing to do.” Jenner finished his coffee and set the cup on an old television tray.
“But you hate the guy, don’t you?”
“Stone’s a sleazeball, but I think he’s good at what he does.” Jenner’s expression turned dark. “And I don’t know anything about Miss Crandall.” He concentrated on the middle distance past Max’s shoulder. His jaw hardened defiantly as if he could see the woman in the room. “Before this is over,” he vowed, “I’m going to know her better than she knows herself.”
“What if you find out she’s lying?”
“I’ll make sure she regrets ever coming back to Rimrock.”
“And if she’s telling the truth?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“You know there’s always a need for medical help right here around Rimrock. I’m sure you could find a job if you looked. That way you could stay here, closer to me. And I could watch my grandson grow up.” Harriet picked up the breakfast dishes as Beth wiped Cody’s hands and face. Seated in an old high chair that Harriet had used when Beth was a toddler, Cody wriggled and protested, shaking his head vigorously.
“No!” Cody wailed. “Noooo!”
“He doesn’t believe in the old connection between cleanliness and godliness,” Beth said as she unsnapped the tray and placed Cody on the floor. Wiping her hands, she added, “I don’t think a job this close to Jenner is such a good idea.”
“I know, I know.” Harriet rinsed the plates before putting them into the portable dishwasher. She looked about to say something, but thought better of it, and for the first time, Beth wondered if something was wrong. Before she could ask about it, Harriet said, “I don’t trust those McKees, so don’t get me wrong. But you can’t run away forever, and even if you tried, there’s no place on earth far enough away. If Jenner wants to be a father to his son, he will.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that.” Beth wiped the table, then hung the dish towel over a metal bar near the sink. “But it would be difficult for Cody to grow up here and know that his father lived in town and didn’t want him....” She shook her head, her own painful memories assailing her.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Harriet asked, her voice barely a whisper as she reached into a drawer for her carton of cigarettes. “It was hard on you growing up and you don’t want your son to have to deal with all the questions and gossip you did.” She flipped open the carton, extracted a new pack and tapped it against the counter. “You know, Beth, I was the best mother I knew how to bet.”
“I know,” Beth said, a lump forming in her throat.
“And I realize that I was something of an embarrassment. I’ve heard the rumors, too. But most of it’s just gossip. Idle tongues wagging and trying to stir up trouble.” She unwound the cellophane wrapper, shook out a cigarette and struck a match. “It bothered me, of course, but the worst part was that the gossip, aimed to hurt me, probably cut you more deeply.” She lit up and smoke filtered from her mouth as she sighed.
“I survived,” Beth said.
“But I can’t help feeling responsible.”
“Mom, don’t. It’s over. Kids can be cruel, yes, and I hope Cody doesn’t have to suffer the same things I did, but God knows I’m not the perfect parent and I don’t know anyone who is. I’ll make my share of mistakes.” She winked at her mother, trying to jolly her out of her sadness. “Besides, all those teases and taunts made me tough—tougher than I would’ve been.”
Harriet hesitated, then drew on her cigarette. “I hope that everything that happens here with Jenner won’t make you think that you don’t have any options, that you should just run off and marry the first man who asks you.”
Beth stiffened. Her mother usually wasn’t one to pry. “Are you talking about Stan? Don’t you like him?”
“Of course I do. He’s a wonderful man. I thought you should marry him, but...” She hesitated. “But he’s closer to my age than to yours.” Folding her arms across her chest, Harriet ignored her cigarette and let the smoke curl in a wavering line to the ceiling. “I know what I said before but I guess I’m having second thoughts. Even if you do marry him and have a wonderful life together, who knows how long he’ll be around. If you want Cody to have a father—”
“Stan’s only fifty-eight. That’s not ancient, Mom.”
“No, but when Cody’s fifteen and a hellion, which, judging by his genes, he probably will be, Stan will be over seventy. He might need some special care of his own—”
“I can manage. I’m a nurse, remember.”
“A young nurse,” Harriet reminded her. As if suddenly weary, she pulled out a kitchen chair and sat on the faded cushion.
“So what do you think I should do?” Beth asked as her mother smoked silently. “Try to find a way to make Jenner marry me?”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Stay single? Let Cody grow up without a father?”
Harriet ground out her cigarette. “No,” she said, “but if I were you, I certainly wouldn’t marry a man just to give Cody a daddy. You might find this hard to believe, B
eth, but every man I ever married, I married for love. And when I stood at the altar I really believed in till death do us part. That only happened once, thank God. Will was a special man, but cancer took him and...oh, Lord, it was hard to watch him die.” Her throat clogged and tears shimmered unshed in her eyes. “Do you remember him?”
“Not much, Mom,” Beth admitted, placing her arm around her mother’s shoulders. William Jones was little more than a hazy memory to her. “But I know he was a good man.”
“The best,” Harriet said as she wiped her eyes with her fingers and sniffed. “Until Zeke, he was the best.” She blinked rapidly, and suddenly a smile stretched across her face. “Well, speak of the devil.”
Zeke Forrester walked into the room in a gray-striped bathrobe and his slippers. A V-necked T-shirt was visible beneath the robe. Only five foot six, he had a blocky build and, before two cups of coffee in the morning, a sour disposition. “How ya doin’?” he said, pausing to buss his wife on the cheek.
Harriet scrambled out of her chair to pour him a cup of coffee, then went to open the refrigerator. “French toast?” she asked brightly.
“It’s Saturday. You know I like bacon and eggs on Saturday.” He shot Beth a dark look and took a quick gulp of the coffee. “Doctor won’t let me eat eggs but twice a week,” he said as some kind of explanation, then searched the tabletop and counters. “Where’s the paper? Don’t tell me the carrier didn’t deliver it again!”
“I’ll get it in a second,” Harriet said. “And stop being so grumpy. Good Lord, you’re a grouch in the morning.”
“Cody and I will go out and get the paper.” Glad for an excuse to escape, Beth carried Cody outside. She was still smarting from her mother’s remarks about Stan, though she knew that Harriet’s concerns only echoed her own. In the past few weeks, even before seeing Jenner again, she’d reconsidered her relationship with Stan. He was a good man. But he really wasn’t interested in starting over with a young family.