Cowboy Swagger. Joanna Wayne
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from these parts.”
Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Able was someone Troy had met in prison. As far as he knew, no one on his mother’s side of the family had ever mentioned the man, but then they hadn’t even spoken his father’s name in years. They were all convinced he’d killed their beloved Helene.
Dylan had acted as if he believed it, too. But he hadn’t. The father who lived in his dreams and imagination could never have killed his mother.
“Is Able the one who readied the house for you?” Dylan asked.
“He had it done.” His father looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “Not much of a house, is it?”
“Structure’s okay,” Dylan said. It was the only positive thing he could think of.
“Used to look better,” his dad said. “Back when …” He stopped midsentence, looking as if pain was digging into his ruddy flesh like sharp nails.
“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It used to be better.”
His dad rubbed the old scar. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head on off to bed.”
And avoid any more feeble attempts at conversation with the son he hadn’t seen since the day he’d been convicted. All the boys had been there that day to say goodbye, against their grandparents’ will.
Dylan tried to muster up a bit of resentment for his father’s eagerness to escape his company. It didn’t come. Truth was, he wasn’t up to talking tonight, either. The chasm that separated them after years of zero communication was too deep and wide to be bridged by a steak and a few attempts at meaningless small talk.
“I’ll take the back bedroom,” his dad said.
Not the big bedroom he’d shared with Dylan’s mom, though Dylan had spotted him standing at that door earlier, staring into the room, his muscles strained and his expression as pained as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry bull.
Dylan sure as hell wasn’t sleeping there, either. “I’ll take my old bedroom. I checked earlier and it looks like all the beds have new sheets on them.”
“Guess the old ones would have rotted by now.”
Troy walked away, leaving Dylan standing alone in the kitchen. Memories gathered around him like a suffocating fog. His mom stirring big pots of stews and soups at the range. Her singing while she worked. Trays of fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter. Her long hair flying when she’d grab him and dance about the kitchen. Her fragrance when she’d pull him into a hug. Her arms around him when he’d had a nightmare.
Returning footfalls in the hallway yanked him from the bittersweet reveries. He swallowed hard and turned to see his dad’s tall, lean body filling the open doorway.
“Thanks for being here, Dylan.”
The words were husky, as if they’d been pushed through a scratchy throat. His dad’s eyes looked moist. Dylan’s started to burn.
“Sure thing,” Dylan said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He turned away as his dad’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway. The connection had been brief, but it had been there. It was a start.
Dylan searched the cupboard for a real drink, something strong enough to fight off the memories and regrets. He found a bottle of whiskey. Not his brand but now was not the time to be choosy.
He poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a glass, swirled it around and then sipped it, welcoming the burn that trailed down his dry throat. He pushed through the back door and into the gray of twilight. Too restless to sit, he finished the drink, left the glass on the back steps and walked to his truck.
He’d be back, but right now he had to get out of here before the ghosts from his past made the woman in white who appeared for the superstitious think she was living in a freakin’ mausoleum.
COLLETTE RAISED THE CAMERA and framed the image of the bride dancing with her preadolescent nephew, an adorable red-haired lad who was stepping all over the hem of her gorgeous gown. The bride, Isabelle Smith, barely twenty-one herself, showed no sign of irritation.
This was her day, and the glow of love emanated from her like stardust. The only bad thing about stardust was that it had such a limited shelf life.
Not that Collette had anything against marriage. She might even take the plunge one day—just not any day soon. She liked her independence and had never met a man who’d tempted her to become a “we” instead of a “me.” But she had to admit, the bride did look ravishing and blissfully in love.
Collette had known Isabelle and her whole family for years. They went to the same church that Collette had grown up in, and Isabelle’s father had helped Collette raise a prize-winning pig back in her 4-H days. Her own father had been too busy enforcing the law and making inane rules for her and her mother to follow.
She also knew the groom and his family. Carl Knight’s dad owned the local hardware and feed store. His mother taught at the new consolidated high school. Carl was in the Marines and had worn full-dress uniform for the ceremony. He’d be shipping off for Afghanistan soon.
Even as she’d taken pictures of the couple exchanging the vows, Collette had prayed he’d return safely. She suspected many of the guests were doing the same.
She moved to another corner of the dance floor that had been set up beneath the white tent. The country band switched from a lively two-step to a romantic ballad, and Isabelle’s grandparents joined the group on the dance floor. Collette couldn’t help but smile as she got a couple of great shots of them snuggled in each other’s arms and swaying to the music.
Setting her camera on a nearby table, she checked her watch. The reception would start winding down soon, but she was sure that she had enough formal and candid shots to satisfy the bride and her family. At least she would once she captured the newlyweds leaving for their honeymoon.
“Care to dance?”
She spun around at the unfamiliar voice.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” she lied. “I just didn’t know anyone was behind me.” Stupid response considering they were beneath a rather crowded tent. She hated that the recent phone calls had made her so apprehensive that she sometimes jumped at her own shadow.
“I’m Brady Collins, friend of the groom.”
He extended his hand. A nice hand, she had to admit, attached to a slim blond guy with cobalt-blue eyes and an enticing smile. There was no spark when his hand wrapped around hers. Obviously, he was no Dylan Ledger.
“I’m Collette McGuire, the photographer.”
“I noticed. You’ve been doing a heck of a job, but I’m sure the happy couple would forgive your abandoning your post for one dance.”
“The offer is tempting, but not in my contract.”
“Ah, the prettiest woman at the reception would have to be a woman of principle.”
“Thanks,” she said, “though we both know the prettiest woman at the wedding tonight is unquestionably Isabelle.”
“Only because she has the unfair advantage of the wedding glow.”
Carl picked that moment to rescue his bride from the awkwardly energetic nephew. Collette reached for her camera. “Your friend Carl looks pretty happy himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get back to work.”
“Can’t blame a guy for asking.”
She didn’t, but even if she hadn’t been working, she wasn’t really interested in meeting anyone tonight. Working the wedding had helped, but the stalker’s call this afternoon had left her more nervous than usual.