* * *
Emma canceled her afternoon appointments and was home by one-thirty. She gulped down a peanut-butter sandwich and a glass of milk, changed into her riding pants, pulled on her boots, and headed out to the barn to tack up the horses. She'd take Vesta, of course, and Leelee would ride good old Bud, a twenty-year-old Quarter Horse so laid-back that he could be ridden safely through a cruise missile attack. Bud usually had a calming effect on Vesta, and Emma was hoping that today he'd mellow out Leelee as well.
The girl had locked herself in her room last night and was still furious in the morning. As Beckett blithely threw waffles into the toaster and hummed to the oldies radio station, Leelee and Emma engaged in a tense standoff over the breakfast table.
Leelee's expression—the few times she even acknowledged Emma's presence—was sharp and accusatory. Emma knew her own face must have broadcast all the guilt she felt.
What had she been thinking, making out with Thomas like a horny teenager? She'd been thinking nothing, obviously. Thinking had nothing to do with what happened last night with Thomas—it was all impulse and instinct and animal lust.
Lust the likes of which she hadn't even known was possible.
So Leelee continued the silent treatment all morning, her mouth pulled in a thin white line of disapproval as she went about her routine. The performance reminded Emma of the way Thomas had looked the day they'd met.
This afternoon's plan to get Leelee to open up wasn't particularly original, but it stood a decent chance of working. She'd wait for Leelee at the bus stop with the horses. She'd take the girl's backpack and give her a leg up on Bud, not allowing her a moment to escape.
Then they'd ride down to the creek. They'd talk. They'd hash it out. And they'd have themselves some damn quality time whether Leelee wanted it or not!
Emma waited at the end of the lane, keeping Vesta calm with gentle murmurs as Bud stood next to them like he didn't have a care in the world—probably because he didn't. Bud had lived a fine life for a horse. He'd been a colt when he arrived at the farm twenty summers ago, Emma's birthday present the year her mother died. From the moment she laid eyes on him, Emma knew the chestnut horse with the soulful eyes was special. And he'd proceeded to ease her sorrow, loosen the knot in her heart, just by being who he was.
Bud had introduced Emma to the magical bond that can grow between companion animal and human being. Bud had been her inspiration for doing what she did for a living. Bud had been her rock.
She glanced over at the horse and he nickered, just as a flash of bright yellow moved through the trees. The diesel brakes whined and hissed as the bus came to a slow stop at the mailbox.
"You're on, Bud," Emma whispered to the horse, watching Leelee descend the steps. "Do your stuff."
Leelee was already scowling as her feet hit the gravel. She swung her backpack over one shoulder and shook her head, silently saying no to whatever Emma had planned.
Emma waited for the bus to leave before she dismounted from Vesta, flipping the reins over the split-rail fence. She brought Bud forward and held out her free hand for Leelee's backpack. "We'll leave this here." She tossed the bag against the fence.
Leelee put on her utterly bored face and crossed her arms over her chest. "Let me guess—we're going to get in touch with our inner goddesses while communing with nature."
Emma couldn't help but laugh. The fact was, Leelee was a riot—pessimistic and surly, yes—but a riot all the same. She reminded her of Thomas.
"What I'd like is for you to get your little boo-tocks in touch with this saddle, please." Emma locked her fingers together and smiled at Leelee, waiting to give her a leg up. "Come on, Lee. It's just a ride. Besides, I know how much you want to go out and check on Mr. Martin's corn crop."
The jaded pre-teen mask fell away from Leelee's face, and she started to giggle. With a sigh she headed toward Bud, stopping to stroke his thick neck and accept his wet kisses. Then she placed her Dr. Martens boot into Emma's cupped hands and popped into the saddle.
"Okay. So where are we off to?"
It took a moment for Emma to mount Vesta—she was a moving target—but soon they were on their way down the lane, side by side at an easy walk.
"I thought we'd go over through the old Weaverton property and down to the creek, then back up along the Martins' field to the woods. Sound like a plan?"
Leelee remained quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I suppose you're going to talk to me about that man."
Emma risked a glimpse at Leelee. She was sitting rigid in her saddle, her gaze straight ahead, the afternoon sun glinting in the honey-gold twists of her hair.
"His name is Thomas."
"Thomas the Tongue," she said wearily. "I suppose he's the flower guy?"
"Yes."
"Are we going to talk about sex now?" With that question, Leelee swung her face to look at Emma, and her mouth was clenched tight, her eyes were hard and her cheeks pink.
"Would you like to talk about sex?"
"No, I would not. I'd prefer a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy with you, if you don't mind—you know, a nice change of pace from Mom. Besides, it's none of my business."
Emma let that comment sink in for a moment and weighed the possible responses. She wanted to do this right, this whole parental guidance and open communication thing. But what was right? This was one of those moments when she wished Leelee had come with an owner's manual.
"In a way, you're correct—it's not your business. But I told you I wouldn't make any decisions without you."
Leelee let loose with a snort of disgust. "Really? Looks like you were making decisions just fine on your own last night."
Emma didn't know what to say.
"And did you check out the guy's dog? It was totally woo-woo—like a midget hyena in a sweater. I'd give anything to have a dog like that—it was the funkiest thing I've ever seen. A little bit of L.A. right here in Mayberry, RFD."
Leelee's words hit Emma with a thud. When had Leelee seen Hairy? How long had she been standing at the door?
"How long were you watching us?"
"Long enough to see you work it, girl."
"That's enough, Leelee." Emma didn't know whether to slap her or pull her close and try to kiss away all the pain—twelve years of accumulated insecurity and loneliness—and that was the central challenge of Leelee. Yet another human being with a case of fear-based aggression. It reminded her of Thomas.
And then it dawned on her. She looked over at the young woman and nearly laughed out loud at the resemblance. Tall, golden, smart, funny, pessimistic, sad—if it weren't for the fact that Thomas had never met Rebecca Weaverton, Emma would be certain she'd uncovered the secret of Leelee's paternity.
Or maybe he had met Becca…
Leelee shot her a suspicious glance. "What?"
"I don't know—nothing, I guess."
"What, Emma? You're giving me this totally weird look."
She shook her head and chuckled. "I like him, Lee. That's what I was thinking. I've decided I like Thomas Tobin."
Leelee said nothing for several long minutes, as they headed toward the old Weaverton place. They rode in silence along the line of pine trees.
"Does he like you?"
Emma smiled a little. "Yeah, I think so."
"Well, he's a hottie, that's for sure."
"Really?" Emma was a bit surprised by that assessment.
"Definite babe material—if you're into old guys with woo-woo dogs."
* * *
They took a break down by the creek. Leelee sprawled on the grass while Emma secured the horses, pulled out juice boxes and granola bars from her fanny pack, and plopped down beside her.
"Refreshment, ma'am?"
Leelee looked up and smiled. "Why yes, thank you," she said primly, piercing the waxed cardboard with the straw. She took a long sip. "A lovely vintage."
Emma grinned at her and leaned back on her hands.
"This is nice, Emma. I'm glad you took me on a
ride." Leelee was quiet while she concentrated on removing the granola wrapper. "And I'm sorry I clammed up on you this morning. I acted like a total jerk."
The words flowed over Emma like a warm breeze, and she sighed quietly. With this adjustment in Leelee's mood, it was time to clear the air.
"I'm trying to be a good mom, Leelee."
The girl's head popped up, alert to the serious tone in Emma's voice. "I know you are."
"It's difficult sometimes. I'm learning as I go."
Leelee shrugged and took another sip. "I know."
"So I want you to know that I don't enjoy having to say this."
Leelee frowned and looked around like she'd missed something. "Say what?"
"That I'm angry with you." Emma sat up straight and turned to face Leelee. "That it was inappropriate for you to watch me with Thomas last night—it was an invasion of my privacy and I don't want it to happen again." Emma paused, gulping down enough air to continue. "And I expect you to speak to me with respect—always. I love joking around with you, Lee, but I sure didn't appreciate the comment you made about me 'working it.' Or the name you gave Thomas. You went over the line."
Leelee's mouth fell open. She dropped the granola bar to the ground.
"I meant it when I told you I'd never make any major decisions without consulting you. But the thing is, I'm an adult woman. And I get lonely sometimes. And I may want to start something with someone at some point—maybe Thomas, I'm not sure—and you'll have to find a way to understand that if it happens."
Leelee said nothing.
"There may even be times when I'll have Thomas or another man over to the house, and I expect you to treat them with respect as well."
Leelee's sob cut through the quiet air. She was on her feet before she realized she was moving, walking away, fast, toward the water.
This isn't happening. This isn't happening.
Emma jumped up to follow her. "Leelee, please look at me."
Her ears were buzzing and the tears made her eyes sting, but it was her chest and throat that hurt the most—a kind of squeezing ache, like a fist clenching around nothing, but still clutching, grabbing, gripping the emptiness inside her until it burned.
"Sweetheart."
"Sometimes, in the mornings, they'd still be wasted, you know?" Leelee was embarrassed to hear her voice come out in such a tiny whine, like she was five years old or something. "Sometimes I'd be getting ready for school and they'd be doing it in the kitchen and I couldn't get any cereal."
Emma thought she would die. Right there.
She raised her hands and pressed them softly to the narrow shoulders in front of her, feeling every bone in Leelee's body shake.
Damn Becca.
"The most psycho part of it was that I hated all those men—really hated them—but that didn't stop me from pretending that they might be my dad. It's so weird to walk around every day and not know who your dad is, Emma."
Leelee felt Emma's hands on her head, stroking, holding, and she leaned into the warm touch.
"I'd see men walking around L.A. and I'd stare at them—construction workers, suits, slackers, every different kind of man imaginable—and I'd look for someone with my color eyes or the same shaped jaw. It was totally lame, I know."
"No, sweetheart. It wasn't."
Leelee laughed bitterly. "And I used to see these dads with their daughters, you know, at places like the mall and the movies and stuff, and I used to get all creeped out by it. It was like I didn't really believe the guys loved those girls just because they were their daughters. I was always looking for proof that there was some other gross reason they wanted to be with them—a sexual reason—because it's all I'd ever seen a man be."
The tears were rolling down Emma's face now.
"The weirdest thing of all is, unless he's dead, there's some man out there right now who might be able to love me just because he's my dad, you know? But I'll never know who he is. I'll never know what it feels like to be loved like that."
Leelee let her face fall into her hands. And in the privacy of her own palms, standing by the creek next to a soybean field, she screamed at the top of her lungs the one thing she'd always longed to say: "It's not fair and I hate her for it!"
Emma lost track of time. She'd collapsed to the bank of the creek and let Leelee fall across her lap and cry. And she'd cried and cried—and Emma joined her—until the sun started to set and Vesta was a nervous wreck. Emma knew they had to head back.
They were quiet on the ride home, and Emma let Leelee be in control of what they talked about. Emma never guessed that Becca was that far gone, but Leelee said there'd been at least a couple men each week.
She hadn't known. She hadn't known!
She'd been in Philadelphia in vet school and Becca was in Los Angeles runing her baby girl's life!
"It's nice to have Beckett, though," Leelee finally said, smiling.
Emma felt drained, her joints loose, and near tears again. But she managed to smile back. "He loves you just for being you—the same way he's always loved me. You know that, don't you?"
She nodded shyly. "Yeah. I think he's pretty cool, too, but…"
"But he's not your dad."
Leelee nodded.
They came within sight of the barn, and Vesta began to fidget. Emma was concentrating so hard on calming her that she almost didn't hear Leelee speaking.
"…so I'd like to get to know him."
Emma looked over and brought the horse to a stop. "What, honey? I didn't hear you."
Leelee rolled her eyes heavenward and groaned. "I said, I know you're not like my mom when it comes to guys. I know you haven't had any kind of, you know, relations with a man since you sent Aaron packing. And I know Thomas the Tongue—whoops, just Thomas—must be special. So what I said was"—Leelee nervously brought her gaze to Emma's face—"that I'd like to meet him. Get to know him. Junk like that."
* * *
Chapter 11
Love Don't Live Here Anymore
« ^ »
Emma had never done anything like this in her life, and as she watched Thomas slice through the yellow police tape across the apartment door, her stomach flipped in anticipation and dread.
This was the home of a murder victim. She was going to see where Scott Slick's body was found. And she was going to try to help solve a crime.
At long last, she was going to get to be Miss Marple.
Thomas closed his penknife and stack it in his pocket as he looked down at her quizzically. Emma cringed. He'd obviously seen her excitement and now must think she was some kind of real sicko to be smiling at a time like this.
"After you, Miss Marple," he said. Then he winked at her.
Chills went up her spine as she stepped inside the living room, and Emma wasn't sure if it was because of where she was or the man she was with. Both scared her a little.
"The evidence techs have been over the place several times, but please try not to touch anything."
"Sure. I underst—" Emma stopped in her tracks. Well, duh! Of course there would be blood on the floor. Slick got hit in the temple with a blender and it cracked his skull, and head wounds bleed like the devil. But still. The blood had dried in a sickening spread of brownish red, like red dust.
She tried to picture a person ruined enough inside to take a human life. The shudder rolled up from her feet to the tips of her ears in one quick wave, and it felt like a forewarning to her, cold and mean and close.
Thomas's hand settled between her shoulder blades and, like magic, the trembling stopped. In its place she felt a warmth begin to spread—entirely too much warmth, in fact—and she suddenly felt overheated, over-aware of how close he stood to her, how crisp he smelled, how handsome he was in his charcoal-gray power suit.
"You okay, Emma?"
She looked up into his face. This was too weird. Thomas was gazing down at her with his eyes so hot, his mouth so sexual, his body pulsing with life and heat and the unmistakable energy of a creatu
re who needed to mate.
And all the while they stood there in the cold, empty place of death.
She started to sweat.
"I'm fine. It's just a little overwhelming."
Concern creased his dark blond brows. "We can leave."
"No!" Emma shook her head. "I need to be here. Let's get to work."
Thomas let his hand drop away from her back as she stepped forward into the kitchen. It was odd seeing Emma here, and he watched as she moved through the brightly lit room, looking up at the ceiling for some strange reason, examining under the lip of the kitchen cabinets above the tile floor, peering under the modern black glass-and-steel dinette set.
He nearly laughed when he saw her crawl under the table and lie on her back, like Petey and Jack when they played fort.
Emma started to hum to herself, a tune he didn't recognize, and she drummed her fingers along her khakis to keep the beat. All the while she studied everything around her, the walls, the underside of the table, the tile, the chair legs.
"There's some dried urine under here. On the baseboard, the chair legs, the tile. I bet the little guy was hiding under here when it happened."
She turned her eyes to the bloodstain.
"The view is unobstructed from this angle."
She scooted out then, hopped to her feet, and smoothed out her simple cotton tee and chinos. When she turned toward Thomas, her braid slipped over her shoulder.
Thomas felt his loins clench and his body temperature soar.
"But the really interesting question is this: Did Hairy manage to stay quiet enough that the bad guy didn't even know he was here? Or did Hairy lose it like he did at your house, and the murderer just figured the dog wasn't worth worrying about?"
Thomas was unable to follow her reasoning, which was forgivable, because he couldn't stop thinking about how her breasts felt cradled in his hands.
"Uh, I'm not sure I see what you're getting at. Why would anyone worry about a dog being a witness?"
Emma nodded and smiled. "My point exactly. Someone who knew a lot about dogs, had their own dog maybe, or had trained a dog—that person might be uncomfortable with the fact that a dog had just seen them murder someone. That person might have felt compelled to get rid of the dog while they were at it."