Lawman's Redemption (8 page)

“There are worse things in the world, like being unhappy. Being sick. Having no friends or morals or decency.”

Clearly the conversation bored the child. “Where do you live in California?”

“Beverly Hills.”

“Do you, like, know any movie stars?”

“A few.”

“How do you know them? Are you rich?”

Hallie stood up as a station wagon turned off the highway and parked behind her car. “My ex-husband is a producer. He's rich.”

“Well, hell, it's real easy to talk like being poor don't matter when you have money,” Les scoffed before Hallie shushed her.

Marlene Tucker was in her seventies, Hallie estimated—white-haired, pink-cheeked and polite enough to hide any dismay she might have felt on meeting Les. Squinting through her glasses, she studied Les's hair after the introductions were finished. “The style doesn't do much for me, but I like the color. What's that called?”

Les looked far more accustomed to negative reactions to her
appearance than positive. She self-consciously touched her hair, then shrugged. “Royal Passion.”

“Don't you know that would open my husband's eyes wide, if he came home and found me sporting a new Royal Passion 'do?” With a great laugh, Mrs. Tucker unlocked the door, then led them inside.

Contrary to Les's pronouncement, the house wasn't at all shabby. It was simple and cozy and had wood floors, a stone fireplace and a kitchen straight out of the fifties. The floor plan was straightforward—living room across the front, dining room and kitchen on one side, two bedrooms on the other and a bathroom in the middle. It was maybe one-tenth the size of her house in California, and she thought it was great. Without hesitation, she traded Mrs. Tucker two months' rent for the house keys, then stood on the porch and waved goodbye as the old lady drove away.

Feeling a wonderful sense of satisfaction, she turned to Les. “You want to help me pick out some furniture?”

The girl put on a scowl as fierce as any her father managed. “I hate it when grown-ups ask if I want to do something when it's clear I don't have a choice.”

“No, you don't, sweetie,” Hallie said, patting her cheek. “So put a smile on and bear it.”

 

Brady might as well have taken the afternoon off, for all the work he'd accomplished. It was hard to concentrate on anything when he kept wondering which one of Sandra's stories was a lie.
Was
Les his daughter? If she wasn't, exactly what were his obligations to her? If she was, what kind of changes would that make in his life?

And what did Hallie think of the whole mess?

Not that it mattered. She was only in Buffalo Plains for a few weeks. Even if she were sticking around, Les was only in town for a few weeks, too. And even if Hallie were sticking around, it wouldn't be with him. He didn't want a relationship, and she didn't either, and…

Hell.

Reaching for the phone on his desk, he dialed Neely's cell phone number. Hallie answered on the second ring.

“Hey, this is Brady. Are you ready for me to pick up Les?”

“Anytime's okay. We've had a pretty good afternoon. I didn't have to beat her once.”

“What?” he asked sharply.

There was a moment's silence, then she said, “That's a joke, Brady. We're at Yesteryear. Do you want me to bring her by the courthouse? Or I can take her to your house, unless you don't want me knowing where you live.”

“I live on Cedar Street.”

“Hmm. I still don't know. So what's the plan?”

There was a rustle of noise in the background, then he heard Les's voice. “Tell him I invited you to dinner.”

“You did not,” Hallie murmured.

“Hey, you want to, like, have dinner with us?” Les asked.

“There. See, I did, too.”

“Anyone want to talk to me?” Brady asked dryly.

“I'm just awaiting your instructions,” Hallie replied.

He liked the sound of her voice, and he was grateful to her for taking care of Les all afternoon, and he hadn't spent more than five minutes alone with her at lunch. Maybe an invitation to dinner
was
in order—especially since it would delay his being alone with Les. “Why don't you take her to the house? Then—here's a great idea—you can stay and have dinner with us.”

There was another brief silence before she answered. “You don't have to provide me with food. I can drop her off and go back to the motel.”

“I know I don't have to. I want to.”

“Well…”

“Of course she'll stay and eat,” Les said loudly.

“The address is 128 East Cedar. It's the last street when you're headed south out of town, on the east side of the highway.”

“Okay. We'll be there in a little bit.”

He said goodbye and hung up, then leaned back in his chair. In the center of his desk mat was a yellow sticky note with an area code and phone number. It was Sandra's number, but he
hadn't found the nerve to call it yet. If she really was in Mexico, as Les had said, calling would be a waste of time. Even if she wasn't in Mexico, she'd lied to him so many times in so many ways that he wouldn't believe her if she told him the sky was blue.

So either way, calling Sandra was pointless. There was only one way to find out beyond a doubt if Les was his daughter—DNA testing—and for that he needed her mother's consent or a court order, since he doubted Sandra would give her consent.

Maybe if he paid her enough.

And if the DNA proved he wasn't her father, how would that affect Les? And if it proved he was, how would she feel, knowing he'd required proof before he could want her? No matter what the outcome, she was the one with the most to lose.

He didn't know if he could be the one to take it away from her.

He stared at the phone number a moment longer, then picked up the note and stuck it in his wallet. Then he grabbed his Stetson, cell phone and pager and left.

He made a stop at the grocery store, where he kept telling himself people weren't paying any more attention to him than usual. But when he pushed his cart up to the cash register, and the checker and the bagger both clammed up and turned shades of pink, it was hard to believe their whispers hadn't been about him.

Great. So he got stared at when Hallie or Les was with him, and now he was going to get stared at when they weren't.

When he pulled into his driveway, the causes of his sudden notoriety were sitting on the porch and laughing. It was an amazing sound in a place that never heard laughter or soft, feminine voices.

“Ah, there's something satisfying about a man who knows his way around a grocery store,” Hallie said, rising from the rocker to take one of the bags so he could unlock the door.

“I take it Max didn't?” He pushed the door open, then stepped back, holding the screen door, so she and Les could enter first.

“Max didn't even know regular people were allowed in gro
cery stores,” Hallie said as she passed him. “He thought only housekeepers and cooks could walk through those doors.”

“Les?” Brady prompted.

Looking sullen, she got up and clomped across the porch and inside. She stopped in the middle of the living room, looked around, then muttered, “I hate your house.”

“Of course you do.”

Eyes sparking, she whirled around to face him. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged as he closed the door, then started toward the kitchen, where Hallie had gone. “You're your mother's daughter.”

“I'm not like Sandra!”

“Yeah, right.” He walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Hallie was unpacking the groceries in the bag she carried, laying them out on the counter and not looking at him.

He set his bag down next to hers, then rested one hand on the counter, one on his hip. “Go ahead and say it.”

She didn't pretend she had no advice to offer. Once the bag was empty, she neatly folded it, then looked up at him. “Be a little patient, would you?”

Had he been impatient? Probably. Had he known comparing her to Sandra wasn't a good idea? Of course. Did he know what an obnoxious response
yeah, right
was under any circumstances? Absolutely.

“I'm going to get changed, then start dinner. If you want something to drink, help yourself, and make yourself comfortable in the living room.”

He went through the door that led down a short hallway to his bedroom, closed the door and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. In the walk-in closet, he dropped his uniform in the laundry basket on the closet floor, then hung his gun belt on a hook inside the door and laid his pistol on the shelf above his head…for all of five seconds. On second thought, he shoved a rodful of clothing aside to reveal a small wall-mounted gun rack. It held two rifles and a shotgun—all it was built for—but the drawer underneath was empty except for a few photographs. He slid his pistol inside, then hesitantly picked up the photos. He
didn't look at them, though. He knew their images well—his grandmother, Logan, Sandra, himself.

And Les. Her mother had called her Alessandra, even then, when she was hardly bigger than a wish. He had always preferred sweetheart.

He returned the pictures to the drawer and locked it, then left the bedroom and went down the hall that passed the bathroom and the room he used for storage, then into the living room.

Les had plopped down in the middle of the sofa, her feet were planted on the coffee table, and she was flipping through the television channels.

He stood at the end of the couch and waited for her to acknowledge him. When she didn't, he moved between her and the television. That earned him a hateful look.

“I, uh… Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I'm just sorry, okay?”

She stared at him but didn't speak.

“There's pop in the refrigerator and cookies and chips in the cabinet. Dinner will be ready in an hour or so.”

On his way back to the kitchen, Brady opened his mouth wide, then wiggled his jaw side to side. He'd spent less than ninety minutes in Les's presence, and already he'd ground a few layers off his teeth. By the time she went home to Texas, he was going to be in need of serious dental work.

Hallie was still in the kitchen, drinking a diet pop and gazing out the window over the sink. When he stopped beside her to wash his hands, she shifted a few inches away.

“You have a nice view,” she remarked.

He didn't look out the window. He saw the pasture out there every day, and had fallen into the habit most evenings of walking out after dark and feeding apples to the horses that grazed there. Instead he glanced down at her. “Yeah, I do.”

She was dressed in pastels today—shorts in pale peach and a shirt in peach and mint-green stripes. With her hair in a ponytail that bounced every time she moved, she looked young and innocent, as if her life hadn't gone to hell on her a couple of times already.

He wondered how she managed that. He hadn't felt either young or innocent since he was five years old.

“I assume we're having spaghetti.” She gestured toward the food on the counter. “Can I help?”

“Would you rather chop onions or open cans?”

“I'll chop.” She washed her hands, then accepted the cutting board, knife and bag of onions. “Do you have a housekeeper?”

“For a place this small?”

“So you cook, clean, do your own laundry and shop for groceries. I'm amazed some smart woman hasn't snatched you up.”

“I haven't been available for snatching,” he said dryly.

“I've heard plenty of men say the same thing, and they had rings on their fingers and their signatures on the pre-nups before they even knew they were in danger.”

“Did you and Max sign a pre-nup?”

“You bet. His lawyer would have had him declared incompetent if he'd tried to marry without one.”

“But you still got the house and the Mercedes.”

“He offered the house to speed things along. As for the car, it was a birthday present. It was a little extravagant for Max, but I thought it was just proof of how much he loved me. Turned out he just felt guilty about the bimbo.”

“And you were never tempted to drive it into his pool or fill it with concrete or anything?”

“Tempted…but, contrary to popular opinion, too pragmatic.”

“Popular opinion's not too popular,” he commented. “Or accurate.”

Her only response was a faint smile.

He emptied a half dozen cans of diced tomatoes and tomato sauce into a Dutch oven, added sugar, then seasoned it with salt, garlic and oregano. Usually he added Italian sausage sautéed with onions and bell peppers, but this time they would have to settle for just the vegetables.

Once the sauce was simmering, they returned to the living room. Hallie sat on the sofa, and Brady chose the easy chair at one end. “So…what did you guys do this afternoon?”

Hallie looked at Les, who was pretending to be engrossed in a rerun of “The Andy Griffith Show.” When the kid ignored
her, Hallie gave a gentle tug to one of her purple spikes, then said, “I rented a house.”

A feeling oddly akin to panic tightened in his gut. “You're only staying a few more weeks. Why would you go to all that trouble?”

She gave him a chiding look. “It wasn't any trouble. For half the money I was paying at Motel Le Dump for one room, I've got five rooms and a huge bath. And it's just far enough outside town to be peaceful and quiet. As far as I can figure, my nearest neighbor is a grumpy undersheriff who likes to keep to himself, so he shouldn't be any trouble, either.”

He frowned, considering the houses he could claim as neighbors. There weren't many, and all of them were occupied except… “You rented the Tucker place?”

She poked her elbow in Les's ribs. “It's that sharp mind and those brilliant powers of deduction that made him become a cop.”