Confessions (33 page)

“Not only will I not try to stop you, I'll reserve front row seats for you and Maggie.”

That was, Mariah told herself, something. It wouldn't bring Laura back. But it would bring some closure to those she'd left behind.

“You're on.”

A
fter locking Fredericka and Loftin up, Trace stopped by Jessica's office. Together they went to the lodge. The open suitcases on the bed revealed that the senator had been about to leave town.

“You probably won't believe this,” Alan Fletcher said, when confronted by Trace, “but I'm actually relieved it's all over. Oh, I realize it will undoubtedly mean the end of my political career, but ever since Heather's death, the guilt has become oppressive.”

“But not your wife's?” Trace couldn't help but ask.

“Of course I feel terrible about that,” Alan said mildly. “But you have to understand, Sheriff, there was never any real love between Laura and me. It had always been merely a marriage of convenience.”

“And when your wife subsequently became inconvenient, you did away with her.”

Jessica shot Trace a warning look but remained silent.

“I didn't have anything to do with that,” he insisted. “Nor was I involved in Heather's death. You have to understand—” he turned to Jessica as if seeking a woman's viewpoint “—I loved Heather!” His voice broke on a sob.

“If that was the case, why didn't you come forward after Heather's death?” Jessica asked.

“Coming forward would not have brought Heather back,” Alan argued. “But it would have ruined my career.”

“That's all that matters to you? Your career?”

“I have a plan for this country,” Alan insisted. “A plan that will enable America to regain its worldwide superiority. Which is a great deal more important than what happens here in Whiskey River.”

“Why don't you try telling it to the judge?” Trace said, thoroughly disgusted with the man's egocentric view of the world.

After reading Alan his rights, Trace booked him into jail with the others, then drove out to the Fletcher—no, he corrected—the Swann ranch.

Maggie let Trace in. This time, after she'd thanked him profusely for solving her daughter's murder, when she kissed him on the cheek in gratitude, there was no aroma of gin clinging to her breath.

“Mariah's upstairs in the bedroom.” She tilted her auburn head in the direction of the stairs. “Now that I know she's in good hands, I'll leave you two alone.”

He found Mariah curled up on the bed, a picture of sorrow. And exhaustion. When she heard him enter the room, she turned her head.

“Hi.” He stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, feeling like a tongue-tied schoolboy.

“Hi, yourself.” Her voice was soft. And lacking its usual strength.

He crossed the room and sat down beside her. The mattress sighed, then settled. “How are you doing?”

She grimaced. “About as good as I look.”

With their faces close, he studied her, letting his eyes roam her exquisite features. She was too pale. There were
shadows like dark bruises beneath her eyes, which had also lost their spark. An angry scratch, left by Freddi's fingernails, had left welts down one side of her face.

“You're beautiful.”

“Liar.”

“It's the truth.” He ran the rough tip of his fingers across the purple mark marring her cheek. The bruise was a perfect imprint of a man's hand. “I should have killed Loftin for this.” His voice held that frighteningly calm quiet tone Mariah had heard before.

“There's already been too much killing,” she said, telling Trace nothing he didn't know. “Besides, it'll fade.”

But the memories wouldn't. Trace knew you never forgot a near-miss meeting with the Grim Reaper.

“Maggie said to tell you that she and Kevin were going back to the lodge, but if you need them—”

“Will you be able to stay?” Her eyes were wet.

His fingers continue around her jaw, down her throat. “For as long as you need me.” He put his arms around her, the way he'd wanted to earlier, back at Fredericka's lakeside house.

“Did you arrest Alan?”

Trace related the conversation with the senator.

“So it's over,” she murmured.

“All but the shouting.”

He thought about the other things he'd learned from Clint. About how Freddi had pressured him to talk Mariah into selling the land by calling the loan he'd taken to cover his margin losses with her former broker husband. About how Matthew Swann had come back from Santa Fe early to confront Clint which had resulted in a brief fistfight, which explained the older man's blood on his shirt.

Clint also had revealed how Patti had tearfully confessed to him that not only had she slashed his and Freddi's tires, while stalking Mariah—to make sure she
wasn't moving in on him—she'd accidently caused the mare to bolt when sunlight glancing off the lenses of her binoculars had hit the horse in the eye, which had come as a surprise, since Mariah hadn't mentioned the fall.

Trace decided these details, since they didn't directly have anything to do with her sister's death, could wait.

“From the looks of things, it's my guess that the three of them will try to work out a plea bargain, rather than take their chances with a jury.”

“I think I hate that idea.” Once again Mariah wished she believed in the death penalty.

“We did our job. Now it's up to the courts.”

“I hate it when you turn noble on me, Callahan,” Mariah muttered.

He brushed her tousled hair back from her bruised cheek. “It'd be nice if these were the days of the OK Corral,” he agreed. “When the sheriff could run the bad guys out of town on a rail. Or better yet, just blow them away on Main Street at high noon. But it's not that easy these days.” He tried a smile. “I'm told it's progress.”

“Sometimes progress isn't all it's cracked up to be.”

He smiled at that because it was a thought he often had himself. “Tell me about it.”

He drew her close and they sat that way for a while, each lost in thought. Now that it was finally over, the pain Mariah had successfully held at bay during the investigation came flooding over her in torrents.

And because she'd held the tears in too long, Mariah buried her face against his strong, hard chest and began to cry.

Her sobs were raw and harsh, coming from deep down inside her. She clung to him. Hot tears drenched his shirt. And still she wept. And wept. And wept.

Trace knew that there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say. But hold her. And love her.

“I'm sorry.” She sniffed, between bouts of weeping. Her shadowed eyes, as she looked up at him were red, as was her nose. Streaks of moisture stained her cheeks. Her face was twisted with lingering pain. She was the most beautiful woman Trace had ever known.

“Don't be.” He pressed his lips against her temple. “You don't have to be strong, Mariah. Not this time.” He ran his hand down her hair, across her back, his touch meant to soothe rather than arouse. “Let it all out, baby.”

His tender tone was her undoing. Her eyes filled and spilled over again before she could prevent it. Hugging Trace close, she resumed her weeping.

As the shadows grew long outside the bedroom windows, Trace held her, and rocked her and murmured low, inarticulate words of comfort. Until finally, there were no tears left.

“I'm sorry,” she said again. “I never cry. Well, hardly ever.” Embarrassed, she swiped at the moisture on her cheeks with the backs of her hands, reminding Trace of a child.

“Your sister died.” He reached over, plucked a handful of tissues from the box beside the bed and began drying her cheeks. “I'd say you're entitled to a few tears.”

She took in his soaked shirt. “That was more like a flood.”

“Whatever it takes,” he said mildly. He tossed the sodden tissues into a nearby wicker wastebasket.

“What does it take, I wonder?” she murmured, as much to herself as to him. “To get used to losing someone you love.”

“Today's a start. I'm not going to lie to you, sweetheart, some days are a helluva lot worse than others. But you get through them.”

“I suppose there's no other choice.”

“There are always choices,” he reminded her of what
he'd told her before. Trace recalled all too vividly an incident a few days after he'd gotten home from the hospital, when he'd been sitting alone with an empty bottle of Jim Beam and his revolver, which he'd pressed against the roof of his mouth.

He'd managed, just barely, to keep from eating his gun that night. And the others that followed. Until finally, suicide no longer seemed a very attractive option. “Some choices just seem better, in the long run, than others.”

As she looked into his solemn gaze, Mariah knew Trace, more than anyone, understood what she was feeling. “Could I please have one of those tissues?” she asked on a sniffle.

He handed her two. She blew her nose and tossed them toward the basket, where they bounced off the rim, then fell in.

“Two points.”

“I played on the NAU girls' team my freshman year and sophomore years,” she revealed.

“What happened your junior year?”

“I discovered drama.” She frowned as she remembered that ill-fated night of her play when her father had unexpectedly shown up at the theater. The night that the growing rift between she and Laura had cracked wide open.

He saw the shadow move across her eyes and suspected he knew the cause. “I love you,” he said gruffly.

Smooth move, Callahan,
Trace blasted himself. After agonizing for days on how to tell her, after picturing a scenario involving roses and champagne and that copper tub filled to the rim with bubble bath, he'd blurted it out like an overanxious schoolboy.

The smile she bestowed upon him was nothing short of beatific. “I know. I love you, too.”

How could the very thing that had been keeping him awake at night turn out to be so easy? “Just like that?”

Mariah nodded. She'd always thought love would be terrifying. But instead, it felt absolutely, wonderfully perfect. “Just like that.”

“In that case…” His mouth closed over hers and he lowered her back against the pillows.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Mariah surrendered to the moment. To Trace.

 

A long time later, Mariah stirred. She'd fallen asleep and it took her a minute to remember where she was. And why.

Then it all came flooding back. Laura, Heather, Freddi, Loftin, Alan. And Trace.

She looked up and found him looking down at her. Their eyes met in an embrace every bit as loving as the one they'd shared earlier.

Smiling, she snuggled back against him, pressing her lips against his chest. “I forgot to ask. Is Clint going to be released now?”

“Jess was filling out the paperwork when I left the office. He's undoubtedly a free man by now.”

“I suppose that's something.”

“It's a pretty big something. He wanted to come by and thank you, but I suggested he save it for morning.”

“You just wanted me to yourself.”

“Guilty.” He pressed a kiss against her hair. Her ear. Her jaw.

“There was something else I didn't tell you,” Mariah offered.

“What's that?” Trace asked absently, engrossed in arranging her gleaming blond hair over her shoulders. Her breasts.

“My father came by earlier. Before you arrived.”

“At the same time Maggie was here? I didn't see any signs of breakage downstairs.”

“Actually, they behaved amazingly civilly.” Mariah combed her hands through her hair. “My father told me he admired my role in uncovering the murder plot. Maggie filled him in.”

“I know. He called the office to verify your mother's story.”

Mariah nodded. “He said he'd talked to you. He also said your explanation was quite flattering.”

“It was the truth.”

“Whatever you said, I really do appreciate it.” She tilted her head back to look up at him. “He didn't exactly welcome me back into the diminished Swann family circle with open arms, but it
is
a beginning.”

“Absolutely.” Because it had been too long since he kissed her, Trace bent his head and covered her mouth with his. “And speaking of beginnings—” his lips plucked at hers “—you are going to marry me, aren't you?”

“That depends.” Mariah pretended to be thinking the matter over. “Do I have to give away all my money?”

“Actually, after giving the matter a lot of thought, I've come to the conclusion that I kind of like the idea of having a rich wife.”

One hurdle down. Mariah tried another. “Can we live here at the ranch?”

“I've always liked horses. But I draw the line at herding cows.”

“You won't have to,” Mariah assured him. “How about my work? I still want to write.”

“I can't imagine you not,” he said with that absolute honesty she'd come to expect from him.

“In that case, I accept.”

Trace let out an explosive breath. “I promise to make you happy.”

She laughed at that, a rich, bubbling laugh that flowed
through him like hot honey. “If you make me any happier than I am, right now, Callahan, I'll have to give up scripting crime dramas and start writing smaltzy hearts-and-flowers date movies.”

“Sounds like a pretty good idea to me.” Deciding that although he'd fallen down on the champagne and red roses, the copper tub still held a host of intriguing possibilities, Trace scooped her up and carried her toward the bathroom.

“Since I've recently discovered that I'm a sucker for stories with happy endings.”