Conall's Legacy (9 page)

“Maybe it would help to talk about it,” she said.

He shook his head, his lips drooping in a frown.

“I’m a good listener.” Compassion choked her. Terror pushed it aside. Did she really want to know what drove a man like Drake?

He took another deep breath, shrugged off the cloak of despair, and walked to the tray. He picked up a glass of lemonade and drank long and deep. He looked as though he was downing straight bourbon the way her father had after reading her mother’s goodbye letter. Lowering the bottleglass, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he looked at her dead on.

“I can’t talk about this, Luisa. I appreciate your concern, but ... I can’t talk about it.”

“Not even part of it? Perhaps you need to start and the rest will come in time.” She saw sorrow reflecting deep in his eyes. “Look, I’m not being nosy. I’ve been through some tough stuff, too, and saw a shrink. It helped a lot to talk things through--to have an impartial listener.”

He studied the remaining liquid, seemed to consider his options. With a heavy sigh, he set the glass down. “I don’t need your ... assistance. I have to work through this alone. That’s why I’m out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Luisa’s spine stiffened, and she forced down the pain his rejection brought. “All right, then. That’s clear enough. I only wanted to help.”

She turned away but he caught her elbow and pulled her back. He gazed into her eyes, plumbed the depths of her soul. Seconds ticked away as silence pulsed between them. He appeared to assess whatever it was he found there. Finally, he spoke.

“All right, you want answers.” His voice dropped to a raspy whisper. “I killed my best friend.”

Luisa gasped, then she buried any further emotional response. She lifted a hand to her throat, her thoughts in a whirl. She needed to be an impartial listener, to let him feel he could tell her his deepest secrets and be safe. But what kind of a man would do such a thing and then state it so categorically?

“Surely, it must have been an accident.”

“Some say it was.”

She let out a breath of relief. “How’d it happen?” She sank onto an old chair leaning against the wall.

Drake shrugged. “We worked together in LA. After work, we stopped in at the local pub for a drink. I made two bad choices that day.” His voice caught in his throat and the knife twisted in her heart.

“But a wrong choice. That’s an accident. No one deliberately chooses incorrectly.”

“That’s what they said at the inquiry. I don’t know.”

“So tell me about it, the way you see it.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped again, his right eye twitching slightly. He sat on a bale of hay, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his face into his hands. The silence thickened and wrapped itself around them, then he lifted his chin to let his sad gaze meet hers. The startling blue of his eyes glazed over with unshed tears. Tears she was sure he’d never let another human see fall.

“We were LAPD assigned to the bomb squad.”

Her gaze slid to the sculpture and she recognized it for what it was. Her stomach tumbled. She dreaded what she knew must be coming, but she stayed silent, letting him speak in his own time. She clutched her hands in front of her, otherwise unable to keep them quiet.

“We were off duty, didn’t have any gear with us. We were in a crowded, neighborhood bar at happy hour when a bomb threat came in. The owner knew us and what we did for a living.” Drake shrugged again. “He asked for help. There wasn’t time to wait for the on-duty team.”

“Why not?” she whispered, fearing he wouldn’t hear her question over the thundering of her pulse.

“The bomb was sophisticated, made to take out the whole pub, which could have collapsed the entire building.”

“Why would someone do such a thing?” She shook her head in wonder.

“He was getting even for being imprisoned. Thing is, all he did was take out an innocent man and not the one he was really after.”

“Couldn’t you evacuate and wait?”

“There were several floors of apartments above the pub. It was after school. Kids would have been up there. Conall never could resist a kid.” A sad smile lifted the corners of his lips. “He and his wife had four of them. Three boys and a girl born after he died.”

The smile faded. He shook his head. “We didn’t know who was in or out. We didn’t have time to evacuate the whole damn thing.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, when we found it, the timer showed we only had a couple of minutes. We knew it could kill everyone in the bar--maybe the upper floors.”

He fell silent, the pain slamming across his face as he paled. He seemed to go back in time.

“What did you do?” she prompted.

“We decided we had to try something, anything to disarm it.”

“My God ... you must have been terrified,” she said.

A tremor slid over him. The pulse at the base of his throat quickened.

“We were too cocky to be afraid. We knew we could handle it.” He laughed, a short, self-deprecating sound. “That’s not quite true.
I
knew I could handle it. Conall wanted to wait. He had his own family to worry about. A new baby on the way,” he choked out. “When I reminded him there were kids upstairs, he gave in.”

“He wanted to wait, but you didn’t.”

“No, I ....” His voice broke, and he struggled to continue. “Mistake number two. Conall held the wires out of my way while I cut the one I thought would disarm the timer. Instead it escalated the clock, so he ran with it. He’d never risk the life of a child.” Drake swiped his hand across his eyes. Was he hiding tears for his friend?

“He must have been very brave.”

“Stupid!”

She jumped and shrank back from the fury boiling in Drake. “Stupid is more like it.” He surged to his feet, and paced in

front of her. He prowled like a trapped cougar.

She waited, her own emotions strangling her.

At last he stopped, surrendering to it. “It blew up just as he threw it into the alley.” He cleared his throat, obviously struggling to speak. “A foot-long piece of wood flew off a shattered pallet and impaled itself in his chest.” Drake touched his finger to his chest, pointing to the place, and then rubbed absently at the pain brought by the memory. “He died in my arms after making me promise to ....” He sank into silence.

Luisa slowly rose to her feet, afraid to startle him. She laid her hand on his arm. “That was an accident. You couldn’t have known you were cutting the wrong wire.”

He shook her off. “But I should have known. It was my job to know. Only a rookie would make such a bad mistake. It was my job to take it out of there. I was the senior officer.”

“But Drake--”

“You don’t know the whole story.”

“So tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“You won’t want to help me when you know the truth.” He shuddered, the truth too much to bear.

“Try me.” She touched him again, but he jerked away from her, stepping to the edge of the shed. He lifted his hand to the door frame and leaned against it as though he’d fall without support. Without warning, he snatched his hand away, curled his fingers into a fist, and slammed it against the rotting wood.

Luisa held her breath when he turned to her, cradling his bruising hand against his body. Murder sparked in his eyes. She lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“I’ll never be sure it was an accident,” Drake choked out.

Sympathy for Drake and the pain he felt stabbed straight through her heart. “But--”

He cut her off. “I’ll never know whether I made the worst mistake of my life or whether I wanted him out of the way, because ...” His voice was raspy and overflowing with unshed tears. He sucked in a shaky breath. “Because I was in love with his wife.”

Her hand clamped over her mouth as he swung around and strode out of the shed. Luisa gulped convulsively, fighting down sudden nausea. She was appalled at the first thought that flew into her mind. He was in love with someone--committed to someone. What kind of woman was she to think of that in these circumstances? Did she care more that he claimed to have killed his best friend, or that he was in love with that man’s wife?

Sit down or fall down
.

Shaking legs carried her to the chair, allowing her to collapse onto it again. Maybe she should go after him, offer some comfort. No, he wouldn’t want pity. And that’s how he’d see it.

She lowered her hand and let it rest lifelessly in her lap. The slow, steady beat of her heart assured her she was still living. A nightmare--maybe it was all a nightmare. What strange serendipitous moment had brought them together? What could they possibly have to share with each other?

Luisa focused on the shed, on today, now. A sudden gust of wind whipped into the open shelter. Dust and straw tickled her nose and clogged her throat. Her loosened hair blew around her face, and she automatically lifted her hand and brushed it aside.

Her fingertips brushed the scar that ran the length of her cheek. Her gut knotted and her stomach pitched wildly. Who he loved didn’t matter. He’d never love a woman who looked like her. That thought came wrapped in despair. Not self pity, she assured herself. Just facing facts.

Was Drake’s emotional wound any less devastating than her physical scars? Luisa doubted it at that moment. Surgery could heal her face--time would heal her heart--but how long would it take for Drake to heal such a soul-deep wound?

Luisa wondered about the woman he claimed to love. Had she been in love with him, too? Had they--Luisa swallowed around the thought--had an affair?

“Damn, get a grip,” she berated herself. “What he’s done is nothing to you.”

The sound of a powerful engine startled her. It died under her cottonwood tree, the slamming of a door echoing across the yard.

“What now?” she asked the air, rolling her eyes heavenward.

She rose and stuck her head around the edge of the shed, not in the mood for visitors. She groaned and glanced at the date on her watch. “Son of a bitch!” Apparently the last few days had flown by when she’d been wrapped up in her visitor and horses.

Resolved, Luisa stepped out of the shed and into the bright sunlight, waiting for the woman to see her as she walked toward her. She forced a lightness she didn’t feel into her voice. “Hello, Mother.”

A small blonde wearing a dusty-rose traveling suit, stood beside a red convertible. The woman’s tentative smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her cheeks were pale under mauve blush. Marie Allen-Montoya had lost at least twenty pounds since they’d last seen each other, and it wasn’t flattering. Fear for her mother pushed aside the pain Luisa felt for Drake.

Forgetting her determination to keep her distance, she rushed to her mother and hugged her. She was appalled at the bony frame under the linen. “You look exhausted. Come in the house, and we’ll get your things later.”

“Thank you, dear. I need to rest for a while.” She patted Luisa’s cheek. “It’s good to see you.” Her voice broke on the last, and Luisa led her toward the house.

The distress she’d felt when her mother announced her pending visit fled as she worried about the other woman’s condition.

Her mother stopped, staring at the house.

“You added a sun porch.”

Damn those plans of Mother’s, anyway, she thought. “That’s right. I use the partially shaded end as my office and the other to grow plants.”

“Where’d you get the design?” Marie whispered.

“It’s yours. I found the drawing in Daddy’s desk.”

Marie’s lips tipped up in a slight smile. “I never could get him to add it. I’m glad you did.” She dug a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

Wonderful, Luisa thought. It’s waterworks time. “Let’s go in.” She steered Marie toward the old living room. “Have a seat and let me get you something cold.”

When Luisa returned to the living room, her mother had not taken a seat. She stared at an oil painting of her husband, tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

Luisa’s throat tightened as she fought her own tears. Unable to speak of her father to her mother, Luisa took the safe route. “Come and sit down.”

She handed a glass and a tissue to her mother and pointed out a chair facing away from the painting. Luisa sank onto a rocking chair and gently swayed back and forth. What on earth could she say? It had been fifteen years since Marie had been on the ranch. Luisa couldn’t stop wondering what brought her back now.

“How was the trip?” she asked.

“Long.” Marie tried another weak smile. “You know how I dislike driving across the desert.”

“Surely, you didn’t drive from LA. I thought you were flying.”

“I did. I picked up the rental in Tucson.”

Luisa surveyed the wrinkled face, puffy eyes, and pale skin. “It’s only a couple of hours from there to here.”

“I know, but it’s a bit much for me these days.”

Luisa fought to count in her head. Her mother was only--what--perhaps fifty-five. Far too young to have a short flight and drive do this to her. Unless ... Oh, God ....